ADRIENNE  TONER 


ADRIENNE  TONER 

A  Novel 


BY 

ANNE  DOUGLAS  SEDGWICK 

(Mrs.  Basil  de  Selincourt) 

AUTHOR  OF  "  CHRISTMAS  ROSES,  AND  OTHER  STORIES,"    "  TANTE  ' 
"  FRANKLIN  KANE,"    "  THE  ENCOUNTER,"  ETC. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

tEije  Kifaersibe  $Drc6s  Cambridge 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ22,  BY  ANNE  DOUGLAS  DE  sfiLINCOURT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CAMBRIDGE  .   MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U  .  S  .  A 


ADRIENNE   TONER 

PART  I 


ADRIENNE  TONER 

•     • 
• 

PART  I 
CHAPTER  I 

"CoME  down  to  Coldbrooks  next  week-end,  will 
you,  Roger?"  said  Barney  Chad  wick.  He  had  been 
wandering  around  the  room,  pausing  once  to  glance 
at  the  Cesar  Franck  on  the  piano  and  once  at  the 
window  to  look  down  at  the  Thames,  and  his  voice 
now,  though  desultory  in  intention,  betrayed  to  his 
friend  preoccupation  and  even  anxiety.  "There  is 
going  to  be  an  interesting  girl  with  us:  American; 
very  original  and  charming." 

Roger  Oldmeadow  sat  at  his  writing-bureau  in  the 
window,  and  his  high  dark  head  was  silhouetted 
against  the  sky.  It  had  power  and  even  beauty, 
with  moments  of  brooding  melancholy ;  but  the  type 
to  which  it  most  conformed  was  that  of  the  clever, 
cantankerous  London  bachelor ;  and  if  he  sometimes 
looked  what  he  was,  the  scholar  who  had  taken  a 
double  first  at  Balliol  and  gave  brain  and  sinew  to 
an  eminent  review,  he  looked  more  often  what  he 
was  not,  a  caustic,  cautious  solicitor,  clean-shaved 
and  meticulously  neat,  with  the  crisp  bow  at  his 
collar,  single  eyeglass,  and  thin,  wry  smile. 

There  was  a  cogitative  kindness  in  his  eyes  and  a 
latent  irony  on  his  lips  as  he  now  scrutinized  Barney 
Chadwick,  who  had  come  finally  to  lean  against  the 


4  ADRIENNE  TONER 

mantelpiece,  and  it  was  difficult  before  Roger  Old- 
meadow's  gaze  at  such  moments  not  to  feel  that  you 
were  giving  yourself  away.  This  was  evidently  what 
Barney  was  trying  not  to  feel,  or,  at  all  events,  not 
to  show.  He  tapped  his  cigarette-end,  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  it  and  frowning  a  little.  He  had  ruffled  his 
brown  hair  with  the  nervous  hand  passed  through  it 
during  his  ramble,  but  ruffled  or  sleek  Barney  could 
never  look  anything  but  perfection,  just  as,  whether 
he  smiled  or  frowned,  he  could  never  look  anything 
but  charming.  In  his  spring-tide  grey,  with  a  streak 
of  white  inside  his  waistcoat  and  a  tie  of  petunia  silk 
that  matched  his  socks,  he  was  a  pleasant  figure  of 
fashion;  and  he  was  more  than  that;  more  than  the 
mere  London  youth  of  1913,  who  danced  the  tango 
and  cultivated  Post- Impressionism  and  the  Russian 
ballet.  He  was  perhaps  not  much  more ;  but  his  dif 
ference,  if  slight,  made  him  noticeable.  It  came  back, 
no  doubt,  to  the  fact  of  charm.  He  was  radiant  yet 
reserved;  confident  yet  shy.  He  had  a  slight  stam 
mer,  and  his  smile  seemed  to  ask  you  to  help  him 
out.  His  boyhood,  at  twenty-nine,  still  survived  in 
his  narrow  face,  clumsy  in  feature  and  delicate  in 
contour,  with  long  jaw,  high  temples  and  brown 
eyes,  half  sweet,  half  sleepy.  The  red  came  easily  to 
his  brown  cheek,  and  he  had  the  sensitive,  stubborn 
lips  of  the  little  boy  at  the  preparatory  school  whom 
Oldmeadow  had  met  and  befriended  now  many 
years  ago. 

In  Oldmeadow's  eyes  he  had  always  remained  the 
"little  Barney"  he  had  then  christened  him  —  even 
Barney's  mother  had  almost  forgotten  that  his  real 
name  was  Eustace  —  and  he  could  not  but  know 
that  Barney  depended  upon  him  more  than  upon 


ADRIENNE  TONER  5 

anyone  in  the  world.  To  Barney  his  negations  were 
more  potent  than  other  people's  affirmations,  and 
though  he  had  sometimes  said  indignantly,  "You 
leave  one  nothing  to  agree  about,  Roger,  except 
Plato  and  Church-music,"  he  was  never  really  happy 
or  secure  in  his  rebellions  from  what  he  felt  or  sus 
pected  to  be  Oldmeadow's  tastes  and  judgments. 
Oldmeadow  had  seen  him  through  many  admira 
tions,  not  only  for  books  and  pictures,  but  for  origi 
nal  girls.  Barney  thought  that  he  liked  the  unusual. 
He  was  a  devotee  of  the  ballet,  and  had  in  his  rooms 
cushions  and  curtains  from  the  Omega  shop  and  a 
drawing  by  Wyndham  Lewis.  But  Oldmeadow  knew 
that  he  really  preferred  the  photograph  of  a  Burne- 
Jones,  a  survival  from  Oxford  days,  that  still  bravely, 
and  irrelevantly,  hung  opposite  it,  and  he  waited  to 
see  the  Wyndham  Lewis  replaced  by  a  later  portent. 
Barney  could  remain  stubbornly  faithful  to  old 
devotions,  but  he  was  easily  drawn  into  new  orbits; 
and  it  was  a  new  star,  evidently,  that  he  had  come 
to  describe  and  justify. 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  charming  American 
girls?"  Oldmeadow  inquired,  turning  his  eyes  on 
the  blurred  prospect  of  factory-chimneys  and  ware 
houses  that  the  farther  waterside  of  Chelsea  affords. 
One  had  to  go  to  the  window  and  look  out  to  see  the 
grey  and  silver  river  flowing,  in  the  placidity  that 
revealed  so  little  power.  Oldmeadow  lived  in  a  flat 
on  the  Embankment ;  but  he  was  not  an  admirer  of 
Chelsea,  just  as  he  was  not  an  admirer  of  Whistler 
nor  — -  and  Barney  had  always  suspected  it  —  of 
Burne-Jones.  His  flat  gave  him,  at  a  reasonable  cost, 
fresh  air,  boiling-hot  water  and  a  walk  in  Battersea 
Park;  these,  with  his  piano,  were  his  fundamental 


6  ADRIENNE  TONER 

needs;  though  he  owned,  for  the  mean  little  stream 
it  was,  that  the  Thames  could  look  pretty  enough  by 
morning  sunlight  and  —  like  any  river  —  magical 
under  stars.  After  Plato  and  Bach,  Oldmeadow's 
passions  were  the  rivers  of  France. 

"She'll  have  something  to  do  with  you,"  said 
Barney,  and  he  seemed  pleased  with  the  retort.  "I 
met  her  at  the  Lumleys.  They  think  her  the  marvel 
of  the  age." 

"Well,  that  doesn't  endear  her  to  me,"  said  Old- 
meadow.  "And  I  don't  like  Americans." 

"Come,  you're  not  quite  so  hide-bound  as  all 
that,"  said  Barney,  vexed.  "What  about  Mrs. 
Aldesey?  I've  heard  you  say  she's  the  most  charm 
ing  woman  you  know." 

"Except  Nancy,"  Oldmeadow  amended. 

"No  one  could  call  Nancy  a  charming  woman," 
said  Barney,  looking  a  little  more  vexed.  "She's  a 
dear,  of  course;  but  she's  a  mere  girl.  What  do  you 
know  about  Americans,  anyway  —  except  Mrs.  Al 
desey?" 

"What  she  tells  me  about  them  —  the  ones  she 
doesn't  know,"  said  Oldmeadow,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair  with  a  laugh.  "But  I  own  that  I'm  merely 
prejudiced.  Tell  me  about  your  young  lady,  and 
why  you  want  her  to  have  something  to  do  with  me. 
Is  she  a  reformer  of  some  sort?" 

"She's  a  wonderful  person,  really,"  said  Barney, 
availing  himself  with  eagerness  of  his  opportunity. 
"Not  a  reformer.  Only  a  sort  of  mixture  of  saint 
and  fairy-princess.  She  cured  Charlie  Lumley  of 
insomnia,  three  years  ago,  at  Saint  Moritz.  Nothing 
psychic  or  theatrical,  you  know.  Just  sat  by  him 
and  smiled  —  she's  a  most  extraordinary  smile  — 


ADRIENNE  TONER  7 

and  laid  her  hand  on  his  head.  He'd  not  slept  for 
nights  and  went  off  like  a  lamb.  Lady  Lumley  al 
most  cries  when  she  tells  about  it.  They  thought 
Charlie  might  lose  his  mind  if  he  went  on  not  sleep- 
ing." 

"My  word!  She's  a  Christian  Science  lady?  A 
medium?  What?" 

"Call  her  what  you  like.  You'll  see.  She  does 
believe  in  spiritual  forces.  It's  not  only  that.  She's 
quite  lovely.  In  every  way.  Nancy  and  Meg  will 
worship  her.  The  Lumley  girls  do." 

Oldmeadow's  thoughs  were  already  dwelling  in 
rueful  surmise  on  Nancy.  He  had  always  thought 
her  the  nicest  young  creature  he  had  ever  known; 
nicer  even  than  Barney ;  and  he  had  always  wanted 
them  to  marry.  She  was  Barney's  second  cousin, 
and  she  and  her  mother  lived  near  the  Chadwicks  in 
Gloucestershire. 

"Oh,  Nancy  will  worship  her,  will  she?  She  must 
be  all  right,  then.  What's  her  name?"  he  asked. 

Barney  had  given  up  trying  to  be  desultory,  and 
his  conscious  firmness  was  now  not  lost  upon  his 
friend  as  he  answered,  stammering  a  little,  "Adri- 
enne.  Adrienne  Toner." 

"Why  Adrienne?"  Oldmeadow  mildly  inquired. 
"Has  she  French  blood?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  It's  a  pretty  name,  I  think, 
Adrienne.  One  hears  more  inane  names  given  to  girls 
every  day.  Her  mother  loved  France  —  just  as  you 
do,  Roger.  Adrienne  was  born  in  Paris,  I  think." 

"Oh,  a  very  pretty  name,"  said  Oldmeadow,  not 
ing  Barney's  already  familiar  use  of  it.  "Though  it 
sounds  more  like  an  actress's  than  a  saint's." 

"There  was  something  dramatic  about  the  mother, 


8  ADRIENNE  TONER 

I  fancy,"  said  Barney,  sustained,  evidently,  by  his 
own  detachment.  "A  romantic,  rather  absurd,  but 
very  loveable  person.  Adrienne  worshipped  her  and, 
naturally,  can't  see  the  absurdity.  She  died  out  in 
California.  On  a  boat,"  said  Barney  stammering 
again,  over  the  b. 

"On  a  boat?" 

"Yes.  Awfully  funny.  But  touching,  too.  That's 
what  she  wanted,  when  she  died:  the  sea  and  sky 
about  her.  They  carried  her  on  her  yacht  —  doc 
tors,  nurses,  all  the  retinue  —  and  sailed  far  out 
from  shore.  It's  beautiful,  too,  in  a  way  you  know, 
to  be  able  to  do  that  sort  of  thing  quite  simply  and 
unself-consciously.  Adrienne  sat  beside  her,  and 
they  smiled  at  each  other  and  held  hands  until  the 
end." 

Oldmeadow  played  with  his  penholder.  He  was 
disconcerted ;  and  most  of  all  by  the  derivative  emo 
tion  in  Barney's  voice.  They  had  gone  far,  then, 
already,  the  young  people.  Nancy  could  have  not 
the  ghost  of  a  chance.  And  the  nature  of  what 
touched  Barney  left  him  singularly  dry.  He  was 
unable  to  credit  so  much  simplicity  or  unself-con- 
sciousness.  He  coughed  shortly,  and  after  a  decently 
respectful  interval  inquired:  "Is  Miss  Toner  very 
wealthy?" 

"Yes,  very,"  said  Barney,  relapsing  now  into  a 
slight  sulkiness.  "At  least,  perhaps  not  very,  as  rich 
Americans  go.  She  gave  away  a  lot  of  her  fortune,  I 
know,  when  her  mother  died.  She  founded  a  place 
for  children  —  a  convalescent  home,  or  creche  — 
out  in  California.  And  she  did  something  in  Chicago, 
too." 

And  Miss  Toner  had  evidently  done  something  in 


ADRIENNE  TONER  9 

London  at  the  Lumleys'.  It  couldn't  be  helped 
about  Nancy,  and  if  the  American  girl  was  pretty 
and,  for  all  her  nonsense,  well-bred,  it  might  not  be 
a  bad  thing,  since  there  was  so  much  money.  The 
Chadwicks  were  not  at  all  well  off,  and  Coldbrooks 
was  only  kept  going  by  Mrs.  Chadwick's  economies 
and  Barney's  labours  at  his  uncle's  stock-broking 
firm  in  the  city.  Oldmeadow  could  see  Eleanor 
Chadwick's  so  ingenuous  yet  so  practical  eye  fixed 
on  Miss  Toner's  gold,  and  he,  too,  could  fix  his.  Miss 
Toner  sounded  benevolent,  and  it  was  probable  that 
her  presence  as  mistress  of  Coldbrooks  would  be  of 
benefit  to  all  Barney's  relatives.  All  the  same,  she 
sounded  as  irrelevant  in  his  life  as  the  Wyndham 
Lewis. 

"Adrienne  Toner,"  he  heard  himself  repeating 
aloud,  for  he  had  a  trick,  caught,  no  doubt,  from  his 
long  loneliness,  of  relapsing  into  absent-minded  and 
audible  meditations.  The  cadence  of  it  worried  him. 
It  was  an  absurd  name.  "You  know  each  other 
pretty  well  already,  it  seems,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  it's  extraordinary  how  one  seems  to  know 
her.  One  doesn't  have  any  formalities  to  get  through 
with  her,  as  it  were,"  said  Barney.  "  Either  you  are 
there,  or  you  are  not  there." 

"Either  on  the  yacht,  or  not  on  the  yacht,  eh?" 
Oldmeadow  reached  out  for  his  pipe. 

"Put  it  like  that  if  you  choose.  It's  awfully  jolly 
to  be  on  the  yacht,  I  can  tell  you.  It  is  like  a  voyage, 
a  great  adventure,  to  know  her." 

"And  what's  it  like  to  be  off  the  yacht?  Suppose 
I'm  not  there?  Suppose  she  doesn't  like  me?"  Old- 
meadow  suggested.  "What  am  I  to  talk  to  her 
about  —  of  course  I'll  come,  if  you  really  want  me. 


io  ADRIENNE  TONER 

But  she  frightens  me  a  little,  I  confess.  I'm  not  an 
adventurous  person." 

"  But  neither  am  I,  you  know ! "  Barney  exclaimed, 
"and  that's  just  what  she  does  to  you:  makes  you 
adventurous.  She'll  be  immensely  interested  in  you, 
of  course.  You  can  talk  to  her  about  anything.  It 
was  down  at  a  week-end  at  the  Lumleys'  I  first  met 
her,  and  there  were  some  tremendous  big-wigs  there, 
political,  you  know,  and  literary,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing ;  and  she  had  them  all  around  her.  She'd  have 
frightened  me,  too,  if  I  hadn't  seen  at  once  that  she 
took  to  me  and  wouldn't  mind  my  being  just  or 
dinary.  She  likes  everybody;  that's  just  it.  She 
takes  to  everybody,  big  and  little.  She's  just  like 
sunshine,"  Barney  stammered  a  little  over  his  s's. 
"That's  what  she  makes  one  think  of  straight  off; 
shining  on  everything." 

"On  the  clean  and  the  unclean.  I  see,"  said  Old- 
meadow.  "I  feel  it  in  my  bones  that  I  shall  come 
into  the  unclean  category  with  her.  But  it'll  do  me 
the  more  good  to  have  her  shine  on  me." 


CHAPTER  II 

ROGER  OLDMEADOW  went  to  have  tea  with  Mrs. 
Aldesey  next  afternoon.  She  was,  after  the  Chad- 
wicks,  his  nearest  friend,  and  his  relation  to  the 
Chadwicks  was  one  of  affection  rather  than  affinity. 
They  had  been  extraordinarily  kind  to  him  since  the 
time  that  he  had  befriended  Barney  at  the  prepara 
tory  school,  hiding,  under  his  grim  jocularities,  the 
bewilderment  of  a  boy's  first  great  bereavement. 
His  love  for  his  mother  had  been  an  idolatry,  and 
his  childhood  had  been  haunted  by  her  ill-health. 
She  died  when  he  was  thirteen,  and  in  some  ways  he 
knew  that,  even  now,  he  had  never  got  over  it.  His 
unfortunate  and  frustrated  love-affair  in  early  man 
hood  had  been,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  a  trivial 
grief  compared  to  it.  Coldbrooks  had  become,  after 
that,  his  only  home,  for  he  had  lost  his  father  as  a 
very  little  boy,  and  the  whole  family  had  left  the 
country  parsonage  and  been  thrown  on  the 
mercies  of  an  uncle  and  aunt  who  lived  in  a  grim 
provincial  town.  Oldmeadow's  most  vivid  impres 
sion  of  home  was  the  high  back  bedroom  where  the 
worn  carpet  was  cold  to  the  feet  and  the  fire  a  sulky 
spot  of  red,  and  the  windows  looked  out  over  smoky 
chimney-pots.  Here  his  stricken  mother  lay  in  bed 
with  her  cherished  cat  beside  her  and  read  aloud  to 
him.  There  was  always  a  difficulty  about  feeding 
poor  Effie,  Aunt  Aggie  declaring  that  cats  should 
live  below  stairs  and  on  mice ;  and  Roger,  at  mid'day 
dinner,  became  adroit  at  slipping  bits  of  meat  from 


12  ADRIENNE  TONER 

his  plate  into  a  paper  held  in  his  lap  and  carried  tri 
umphantly  to  his  mother's  room  afterwards.  "Oh, 
darling,  you  oughtn't  to,"  she  would  say  with  her 
loving,  girlish  smile,  and  he  would  reply,  "But  I 
went  without,  Mummy;  so  it's  quite  all  right."  His 
two  little  sisters  were  kept  in  the  nursery,  as  they 
were  noisy,  high-spirited  children,  and  tired  their 
mother  too  much.  Roger  was  her  companion,  her 
comrade;  her  only  comrade  in  the  world,  really,  be 
side  Erne.  It  had  been  Mrs.  Chadwick  who  had 
saved  Effie  from  the  lethal  chamber  after  her  mis 
tress's  death.  Roger  never  spoke  about  his  mother,  but 
he  did  speak  about  Effie  when  she  was  thus  threat 
ened,  and  he  had  never  forgotten,  never,  never,  Mrs. 
Chadwick's  eager  cry  of,  "But  bring  her  here,  my 
dear  Roger.  I  like  idle  cats!  Bring  her  here,  and  I 
promise  you  that  we'll  make  her  happy.  Animals 
are  so  happy  at  Cold  brooks."  To  see  Effie  cherished, 
petted,  occupying  the  best  chairs  during  all  the  years 
that  followed,  had  been  to  see  his  mother,  in  this 
flickering  little  ghost,  remembered  in  the  only  way 
he  could  have  borne  to  see  her  explicitly  remem 
bered,  and  it  was  because  of  Effie  that  he  had  most 
deeply  loved  Coldbrooks.  It  remained  always  his 
refuge  during  a  cheerless  and  harassed  youth,  when, 
with  his  two  forceful,  black- browed  sisters  to  settle 
in  life,  he  had  felt  himself  pant  and  strain  under  the 
harness.  He  was  fonder  of  them  than  they  of 
him,  for  they  were  hard,  cheerful  young  women,  in 
heriting  harshness  of  feature  and  manner  from  their 
father,  with  their  father's  black  eyes.  It  was  from 
his  mother  that  Oldmeadow  had  his  melancholy 
blue  ones,  and  he  had  never  again  met  his  mother's 
tenderness. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  13 

Both  sisters  were  now  settled,  one  in  India  and 
one,  very  prosperously,  in  London;  but  he  seldom 
turned  for  tea  into  Cadogan  Gardens  and  Trixie's 
brisk  Chippendale  drawing-room;  though  Cadogan 
Gardens  was  obviously  more  convenient  than  So- 
mer's  Place,  where,  on  the  other  side  of  the  park, 
Mrs.  Aldesey  lived.  He  had  whims,  and  did  not 
know  whether  it  was  because  he  more  disliked  her 
husband  or  her  butler  that  he  went  so  seldom  to  see 
Trixie.  Her  husband  was  jovial  and  familiar,  and 
the  butler  had  a  face  like  a  rancid  ham  and  a  surrep 
titious  manner.  One  had  always  to  be  encountered 
at  the  door,  and  the  other  was  too  often  in  the  draw 
ing-room,  and  Trixie  was  vexatiously  satisfied  with 
both;  Trixie  also  had  four  turbulent,  intelligent 
children,  in  whom  complacent  parental  theories  of 
uncontrol  manifested  themselves  unpleasantly,  and 
altogether  she  was  too  much  hedged  in  by  obstacles 
to  be  tempting ;  even  had  she  been  tempting  in  her 
self.  Intercourse  with  Trixie,  when  it  did  take  place, 
consisted  usually  of  hard-hearted  banter.  She  ban 
tered  him  a  great  deal  about  Mrs.  Aldesey,  who,  she 
averred,  snubbed  her.  Not  that  Trixie  minded  being 
snubbed  by  anybody. 

It  was  a  pleasant  walk  across  the  park  on  this 
spring  day  when  the  crocuses  were  fully  out  in  the 
grass,  white,  purple  and  gold,  and  the  trees  just 
scantly  stitched  with  green,  and,  as  always,  it  was 
with  a  slight  elation  that  he  approached  his  friend. 
However  dull  or  jaded  oneself  or  the  day,  the 
thought  of  her  cheered  one  as  did  the  thought 
of  tea.  She  made  him  think  of  her  own  China  tea. 
She  suggested  delicate  ceremoniousness.  Though 
familiar,  there  was  always  an  aroma  of  unexpect- 


14  ADRIENNE  TONER 

edness  about  her;  a  slight,  sweet  shock  of  oddity 
and  surprise. 

Mrs.  Aldesey  was  unlike  the  traditional  London 
American.  She  was  neither  rich  nor  beautiful  nor 
noticeably  well-dressed.  One  became  gradually 
aware,  after  some  time  spent  in  her  company,  that 
her  clothes,  soft-tinted  and  silken,  were  pleas 
ing,  as  were  her  other  appurtenances;  the  narrow 
front  of  her  little  house,  painted  freshly  in  white 
and  green  and  barred  by  boxes  of  yellow  wallflower ; 
the  serenely  unfashionable  water-colours  of  Italy, 
painted  by  her  mother,  on  the  staircase;  and  her 
drawing-room,  grey-green  and  primrose-yellow,  with 
eighteenth-century  fans,  of  which  she  had  a  col 
lection,  displayed  in  cabinets,  and  good  old  glass. 

Mrs.  Aldesey  herself,  behind  her  tea-table,  very 
faded,  very  thin,  with  what  the  French  term  a  souf- 
freteux  little  face  —  an  air  of  just  not  having  taken 
drugs  to  make  her  sleep,  but  of  having  certainly 
taken  tabloids  to  make  her  digest  —  seemed  al 
ready  to  belong  to  a  passing  order  of  things;  an 
order  still  sustained,  if  lightly,  by  stays,  and  keeping 
a  prayer-book  as  punctually  in  use  as  a  card-case. 

Oldmeadow  owed  her,  if  indirectly,  to  the  Chad- 
wicks,  as  he  owed  so  much,  even  if  it  was  entirely  on 
his  own  merits  that  he  had  won  her  regard.  They 
had  met,  years  ago,  in  France;  an  entirely  chance 
encounter,  and  probably  a  futureless  one,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  presence  in  the  hotel  at  Amboise  of  the 
Lumleys.  They  both  slightly  knew  the  Lumleys, 
and  the  Lumleys  and  the  Chadwicks  were  old  friends. 
So  it  had  come  about;  and  if  he  associated  Mrs. 
Aldesey  with  tea,  he  associated  her  also  with  perfect 
omelettes  and  the  Loire.  He  had  liked  her  at  once 


ADRIENNE  TONER  15 

so  much,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  an  always  unseen 
yet  never-repudiated  husband  in  New  York,  he 
would  certainly,  at  the  beginning,  have  fallen  in  love 
with  her.  But  the  unrepudiated  husband  made  as 
much  a  part  of  Mrs.  Aldesey's  environment  as  her 
stays  and  her  prayer-book.  The  barrier  was  so  evi 
dent  that  one  did  not  even  reflect  on  what  one  might 
have  done  had  it  not  been  there;  and  indeed,  Mrs. 
Aldesey,  he  now  seemed,  after  many  pleasant  years 
of  friendship,  to  recognize,  for  all  the  sense  of  sweet 
ness  and  exhilaration  she  gave  him,  had  not  enough 
substance  to  rouse  or  sustain  his  heart.  She  was,  like 
the  tea  again,  all  savour. 

She  lifted  to-day  her  attentive  blue  eyes  —  with 
age  they  would  become  shrewd  —  and  gave  him  her 
fine  little  hand,  blue-veined  and  ornamented  with 
pearls  and  diamonds  in  old  settings.  She  wore  long 
earrings  and  a  high,  transparent  collar  of  net  and 
lace.  Her  earrings  and  her  elaborately  dressed  hair, 
fair  and  faded,  seemed  as  much  a  part  of  her  per 
sonality  as  her  eyes,  her  delicate  nose  and  her  small, 
slightly  puckered  mouth  that  dragged  provocatively 
and  prettily  at  one  corner  when  she  smiled.  Old- 
meadow  sometimes  wondered  if  she  were  happy ;  but 
never  because  of  anything  she  said  or  did. 

"  I  want  to  hear  about  some  people  called  Toner," 
he  said,  dropping  into  the  easy-chair  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  tea-table.  It  was  almost  always  thus  that 
he  and  Mrs.  Aldesey  met.  He  rarely  dined  out. 
"I'm  rather  perturbed.  I  think  that  Barney  —  you 
remember  young  Chadwick  —  is  going  to  marry  a 
Miss  Toner  —  a  Miss  Adrienne  Toner.  And  I  hope 
you'll  have  something  to  her  advantage  to  tell  me. 
As  you  know,  I'm  devoted  to  Barney  and  his  family," 


16  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"I  know.  The  Lumleys'  Chad  wicks.  I  remember 
perfectly.  The  dear  boy  with  the  innocent  eyes  and 
sulky  mouth.  Why  don't  you  bring  him  to  see  me? 
He's  dancing  the  tango  in  all  his  spare  moments,  I 
suppose,  and  doesn't  care  about  old  ladies."  Mrs. 
Aldesey  was  not  much  over  forty,  but  always  thus 
alluded  to  herself.  "Toner,"  she  took  up,  pouring 
out  his  tea.  "Why  perturbed?  Do  you  know  any 
thing  against  them?  Americans,  you  mean.  We  poor 
expatriates  are  always  seen  as  keepers  to  so  many 
curious  brethren.  —  Toner.  Cela  ne  me  dit  rien." 

"I  know  nothing  against  them  except  that  Mrs. 
Toner,  the  girl's  mother,  died,  by  arrangement,  out 
at  sea,  on  her  yacht  —  in  sunlight.  Does  that  say 
anything?  People  don't  do  that  in  America,  do  they, 
as  a  rule?  A  very  opulent  lady,  I  inferred." 

"Oh,  dear!"  Mrs.  Aldesey  now  ejaculated,  as  if 
enlightened.  "Can  it  be?  Do  you  mean,  I  wonder, 
the  preposterous  Mrs.  Toner,  of  whom,  fifteen  years 
ago,  I  had  a  glimpse,  and  used  to  hear  vague  ru 
mours?  She  wandered  about  the  world.  She  dressed 
in  the  Empire  period:  Queen  Louise  of  Prussia, 
white  gauze  bound  beneath  her  chin.  She  had  a 
harp,  and  warbled  to  monarchs.  She  had  an  astral 
body,  and  a  Yogi  and  a  yacht  and  everything  hand 
some  about  her.  The  typical  spiritual  cabotine  of 
our  epoch  —  though  I'm  sure  they  must  always  have 
existed.  Of  course  it  must  be  she.  No  one  else  could 
have  died  like  that.  Has  she  died,  poor  woman? 
On  a  yacht.  Out  at  sea.  In  sunlight.  How  uncom 
fortable!" 

"Yes,  she's  dead,"  said  Oldmeadow  resignedly. 
"Yes;  it's  she,  evidently.  And  her  daughter  is  com 
ing  down  to  Coldbrooks  this  week-end.  I'm  afraid 


ADRIENNE  TONER  17 

that  unless  Barney  has  too  many  rivals,  he'll  cer 
tainly  marry  her.  But  what  you  say  leads  me  to 
infer  that  he  will  have  rivals  and  to  hope  they  may 
be  successful.  She  will,  no  doubt,  marry  a  prince." 

"Something  Italian,  perhaps.  Quite  a  small  for 
tune  will  do  that.  Certainly  your  nice  Barney 
wouldn't  have  been  at  all  Mrs.  Toner's  affaire.  The 
girl  on  her  own  may  think  differently,  for  your  Bar 
ney  is,  I  remember,  very  engaging,  and  has  a  way 
with  him.  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  girl. 
I  didn't  know  there  was  one.  There's  no  reason  why 
she  may  not  be  charming.  Our  wonderful  people 
have  the  gift  of  picking  up  experience  in  a  generation 
and  make  excellent  princesses." 

"But  she's  that  sort,  you  think.  The  sort  that 
marries  princes  and  has  no  traditions.  Where  did 
they  come  from?  Do  you  know  that?" 

"  I  haven't  an  idea.  Yet,  stay.  Was  it  not  tooth 
paste? —  Toner's  Peerless  Tooth- Paste.  Obsolete; 
yet  I  seem  to  see,  reminiscently,  in  far-away  nursery 
days,  the  picture  of  a  respectable  old  gentleman 
with  side- whiskers,  on  a  tube.  A  pretty  pink  glazed 
tube  with  a  gilt  top  to  it.  Perhaps  it's  that.  Since  it 
was  Toner's  it  would  be  the  father's  side;  not  the 
warbling  mother's.  Well,  many  of  us  might  wish  for 
as  unambiguous  an  origin  nowadays.  And,  in  Amer 
ica,  we  did  all  sorts  of  useful  things  when  we  first, 
all  of  us,  came  over  in  the  Mayflower!"  said  Mrs. 
Aldesey  with  her  dragging  smile. 

Oldmeadow  gazed  upon  his  friend  with  an  iron 
ically  receptive  eye.  "Have  they  ever  known  any 
one  decent?  Anyone  like  yourself?  I  don't  mean 
over  here.  I  mean  in  America." 

"No  one  like  me,  I  imagine;  if  I'm  decent.  Mrs. 


18  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Toner  essayed  a  season  in  New  York  one  winter,  and 
it  was  then  I  had  my  glimpse  of  her,  at  the  opera,  in 
the  Queen  Louise  dress.  A  pretty  woman,  dark, 
with  a  sort  of  soulful  and  eminently  respectable 
coquetry  about  her;  surrounded  by  swarms  of  devo 
tees  —  all  male,  to  me  unknown ;  and  with  some 
thing  in  a  turban  that  I  took  to  be  a  Yogi  in  the 
background.  She  only  tried  the  one  winter.  She 
knew  what  she  wanted  and  where  she  couldn't  get  it. 
We  are  very  dry  in  New  York  —  such  of  us  as  sur 
vive.  Very  little  moved  by  warblings  or  astral  bodies 
or  millions.  As  you  intimate,  she'll  have  done  much 
better  over  here.  You  are  a  strange  mixture  of 
materialism  and  ingenuousness,  you  know." 

"It's  only  that  we  have  fewer  Mrs.  Toners  to 
amuse  us  and  more  to  do  with  millions  than  you 
have,"  said  Oldmeadow;  but  Mrs.  Aldesey,  shaking 
her  head  with  a  certain  sadness,  said  that  it  wasn't 
as  simple  as  all  that. 

"Have  you  seen  her?  Have  you  seen  Adrienne?" 
she  took  up  presently,  making  him  his  second  cup  of 
tea.  "Is  she  pretty?  Is  he  very  much  in  love?" 

"I'm  going  down  to  Coldbrooks  on  Saturday  to 
see  her,"  said  Oldmeadow,  "and  I  gather  that  it's 
not  to  subject  her  to  any  test  that  Barney  wants  me ; 
it's  to  subject  me,  rather.  He's  quite  sure  of  her. 
He  thinks  she's  irresistible.  He  merely  wants  to 
make  assurance  doubly  sure  by  seeing  me  bowled 
over.  I  don't  know  whether  she's  pretty.  She  has 
powers,  apparently,  that  make  her  independent  of 
physical  attractions.  She  lays  her  hands  on  people's 
heads  and  cures  them.  She  cured  Charlie  Lumley 
of  insomnia  at  Saint  Moritz  three  years  ago." 

Mrs.  Aldesey,  at  this,  looked  at  him  for  some 


ADRIENNE  TONER  19 

moments  in  silence.  "  Yes,"  she  assented,  and  in  her 
pause  she  seemed  to  have  recognized  and  placed  a 
familiar  object.  "Yes.  She  would.  That's  just 
what  Mrs.  Toner's  daughter  would  do.  I  hope  she 
doesn't  warble,  too.  Laying  on  hands  is  better  than 
warbling." 

"I  see  you  think  it  hopeless,"  said  Oldmeadow, 
pushing  back  his  chair  and  yielding,  as  he  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  pockets  and  stretched  out  his  legs,  to 
an  avowed  chagrin.  "What  a  pity  it  is !  A  thousand 
pities.  They  are  such  dear,  good,  simple  people,  and 
Barney,  though  he  doesn't  know  it,  is  as  simple  as 
any  of  them.  What  will  become  of  them  with  this 
overwhelming  cuckoo  in  their  nest." 

At  this  Mrs.  Aldesey  became  serious.  "I  don't 
think  it  hopeless  at  all.  You  misunderstand  me. 
Isn't  the  fact  that  he's  in  love  with  her  reassuring  in 
itself?  He  may  be  simple,  but  he's  a  delicate,  dis 
cerning  creature,  and  he  couldn't  fall  in  love  with 
some  one  merely  pretentious  and  absurd.  She  may 
be  charming.  I  can  perfectly  imagine  her  as  charm 
ing,  and  there's  no  harm  in  laying  on  hands;  there 
may  be  good.  Don't  be  narrow,  Roger.  Don't  go 
down  there  feeling  dry.  " 

"I  am  narrow,  and  I  do  feel  dry;  horribly  dry," 
said  Oldmeadow.  "How  could  the  child  of  such  a 
mother,  and  of  tooth-paste,  be  charming?  Don't  try 
specious  consolation,  now,  after  having  more  than 
justified  all  my  suspicions." 

"I'm  malicious,  not  specious;  and  I  can't  resist 
having  my  fling.  But  you  mustn't  be  narrow  and 
take  me  au  pied  de  la  lettre.  I  assert  that  she  may  be 
charming.  I  assert  that  I  can  see  it  all  working  out 
most  happily.  She'll  lay  her  hands  on  them  and 


20  ADRIENNE  TONER 

they'll  love  her.  What  I  really  want  to  say  is  this: 
don't  try  to  set  Barney  against  her.  He'll  marry  her 
all  the  same  and  never  forgive  you." 

"Ah;  there  we  have  the  truth  of  it.  But  Barney 
would  always  forgive  me,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

"Well  then,  she  won't.  And  you'd  lose  him  just 
as  surely.  And  she'll  know.  Let  me  warn  you  of 
that.  She'll  know  perfectly." 

"I'll  keep  my  hands  off  her,"  said  Oldmeadow, 
"if  she  doesn't  try  to  lay  hers  on  me." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  Chadwicks  all  had  a  certain  sulkiness  in  their 
charming  looks,  and  where  in  Barney  it  mingled  with 
sweetness,  in  Palgrave,  his  younger  brother,  it  min 
gled  with  brilliancy.  It  was  Palgrave  who,  at  the 
station,  met  the  family  friend  and  counsellor  in  the 
shabby,  inexpensive  family  car.  He  was  still  a  mere 
boy,  home  from  Marlborough  for  the  Easter  holi 
days  ;  fond  of  Oldmeadow,  as  all  the  Chadwicks  were ; 
but  more  resentful  of  his  predominance  than  Barney 
and  more  indifferent  to  his  brotherly  solicitude.  He 
had  Barney's  long,  narrow  face  and  Barney's  eyes 
and  lips;  but  the  former  were  proud  and  the  latter 
petulant.  To-day,  as  he  sat  beside  him  in  the  car, 
Oldmeadow  was  aware  of  something  at  once  fixed 
and  vibrating  in  his  bearing.  He  wanted  to  say 
something,  and  he  had  resolved  to  be  silent.  During 
their  last  encounter  at  Coldbrooks,  he  and  Old- 
meadow  had  had  a  long,  antagonistic  political  dis 
cussion,  and  Palgrave's  resentment  still,  no  doubt, 
survived. 

Coldbrooks  lay  among  the  lower  Cotswolds,  three 
miles  from  the  station,  and  near  the  station  was  the 
village  of  Chelford  where  Nancy  Averil  and  her 
mother  lived.  Nancy  was  at  Coldbrooks;  Aunt 
Monica  —  she  was  called  aunt  by  the  Chadwick 
children,  though  she  and  Mrs.  Chadwick  were  first 
cousins  —  was  away.  So  Palgrave  informed  him. 
But  he  did  not  speak  again  until  the  chill,  green 
curve  of  arable  hillside  was  climbed  and  a  stretch  of 
wind-swept  country  lay  before  them.  Then  suddenly 


22  ADRIENNE  TONER 

he  volunteered:  "The  American  girl  is  at  Cold- 
brooks." 

"Oh!  Is  she?  When  did  she  come?"  Somehow 
Oldmeadow  had  expected  the  later  train  for  Miss 
Toner. 

"Yesterday.  She  and  Barney  came  down  to 
gether  in  her  car." 

"So  you've  welcomed  her  already,"  said  Old- 
meadow,  curious  of  the  expression  on  the  boy's  face. 
"How  does  she  fit  into  Coldbrooks?  Does  she  like 
you  all  and  do  you  like  her?" 

For  a  moment  Palgrave  was  silent.  "You  mean 
it  makes  a  difference  whether  we  do  or  not?"  he 
then  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  meant  that.  Though  if  peo 
ple  come  into  your  life  it  does  make  a  difference." 

"And  is  she  going  to  come  into  our  lives?"  Pal- 
grave  asked,  and  Oldmeadow  felt  pressure  of  some 
sort  behind  the  question.  "That's  what  I  mean. 
Has  Barney  told  you  ?  He's  said  nothing  to  us.  Not 
even  to  Mother." 

"Has  Barney  told  me  he's  going  to  marry  her? 
No ;  he  hasn't.  But  it's  evident  he  hopes  to.  Perhaps 
it  depends  on  whether  she  likes  Coldbrooks  and 
Coldbrooks  likes  her." 

"Oh,  no,  it  doesn't.  It  doesn't  depend  on  any 
thing  at  all  except  whether  she  likes  Barney,"  said 
Palgrave.  "She's  the  sort  of  person  who  doesn't 
depend  on  anything  or  anybody  except  herself.  She 
cuts  through  circumstance  like  a  knife  through 
cheese.  And  if  she's  not  going  to  take  him  I  wish 
she'd  never  come,"  he  added,  frowning  and  turning, 
under  the  peak  of  his  cap,  his  jewel-like  eyes  upon 
his  companion.  "  It's  a  case  of  all  or  nothing  with  a 


ADRIENNE  TONER  23 

person  like  that.  It's  too  disturbing  —  just  for  a 
glimpse." 

Oldmeadow  felt  himself  disconcerted.  Oddly 
enough,  for  the  boy  was  capricious  and  extravagant, 
Palgrave's  opinion  had  more  weight  with  him  than 
Barney's.  Barney,  for  one  thing,  was  sexually  sus 
ceptible  and  Palgrave  was  not.  Though  so  young, 
Oldmeadow  felt  him  already  of  a  poetic  temperament, 
passionate  in  mind  and  cold  in  blood. 

"She's  so  charming?  You  can't  bear  to  lose  her 
now  you've  seen  her?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  about  charming.  No;  I  don't  think 
her  charming.  At  least  not  if  you  mean  something 
little  by  the  word.  She's  disturbing.  She  changes 
everything." 

"  But  if  she  stays  she'll  be  more  disturbing.  She'll 
change  more." 

"Oh,  I  shan't  mind  that!  I  shan't  mind  change," 
Palgrave  declared.  "If  it's  her  change  and  she's 
there  to  see  it  through."  And,  relapsing  to  muteness, 
he  bent  to  his  brakes  and  they  slid  down  among  the 
woods  of  Cold  brooks. 

For  the  life  of  him  and  with  the  best  will  in  the 
world,  he  couldn't  make  it  out.  That  was  Oldmead- 
ow's  first  impression  as,  among  the  familiar  group 
gathered  in  the  hall  about  the  tea-table,  Miss  Toner 
was  at  last  made  manifest  to  him.  She  was,  he  felt 
sure,  in  his  first  shrewd  glance  at  her,  merely  what 
Lydia  Aldesey  would  have  placed  as  a  third-rate 
American  girl,  and  her  origins  in  commercial  enter 
prise  were  eminently  appropriate. 

She  got  up  to  meet  him,  as  if  recognizing  in  him 
some  special  significance  or,  indeed,  as  it  might  be 
her  ingenuous  habit  to  do  in  meeting  any  older  per- 


24  ADRIENNE  TONER 

son.  But  he  was  not  so  much  older  if  it  came  to  that ; 
for,  after  he  had  met  the  direct  and  dwelling  gaze  of 
her  large,  light  eyes,  the  second  impression  was  that 
she  was  by  no  means  so  young  as  Barney  had  led 
him  to  expect.  She  was  certainly  as  old  as  Barney. 

There  were  none  of  the  obvious  marks  of  wealth 
upon  her.  She  wore  a  dark-blue  dress  tying  on  the 
breast  over  white.  She  was  small  in  stature  and,  in 
manner,  composed  beyond  anything  he  had  ever 
encountered.  With  an  irony,  kindly  enough,  yet 
big,  he  knew,  with  unfavourable  inferences,  he  even 
recognized,  reconstructing  the  moment  in  the  light 
of  those  that  followed,  that  in  rising  to  meet  him  as 
he  was  named  to  her,  it  had  been,  rather  than  in 
shyness  or  girlishness,  in  the  wish  to  welcome  him 
and  draw  him  the  more  happily  into  a  group  she  had 
already  made  her  own. 

They  were  all  sitting  round  the  plentiful  table,  set 
with  home-made  loaves  and  cakes,  jams  and  butter, 
and  a  Leeds  bowl  of  primroses;  Miss  Toner  just 
across  from  him,  Barney  on  one  side  of  her  —  his 
was  an  air  of  tranquil  ecstasy  —  and  little  Barbara 
on  the  other,  and  they  all  seemed  to  emanate  a  new 
radiance;  almost,  thought  Oldmeadow,  with  an 
irritability  that  was  still  genial,  like  innocent  sav 
ages  on  a  remote  seashore  gathered  with  intent  eyes 
and  parted  lips  round  the  newly  disembarked  Chris 
topher  Columbus.  Mrs.  Chadwick,  confused,  as 
usual,  among  her  tea-cups,  sending  hasty  relays  of 
sugar  after  the  unsugared  or  recalling  those  sugared 
in  error,  specially  suggested  the  simile.  She  could, 
indeed,  hardly  think  of  her  tea.  Her  wide,  startled 
gaze  turned  incessantly  on  the  new-comer  and  to 
Oldmeadow,  for  all  his  nearly  filial  affection,  the 


ADRIENNE  TONER  25 

eyes  of  Eleanor  Chadwick  looked  like  nothing  in  the 
world  so  much  as  those  of  the  March  Hare  in  Ten- 
niel's  evocation  of  the  endearing  creature.  Unlike 
her  children,  she  was  fair,  with  a  thin,  high,  ridicu 
lously  distinguished  nose;  but  her  mouth  and  chin 
had  Barney's  irresolution  and  sweetness,  and  her 
untidy  locks  Meg's  beauty.  Meg  was  a  beauty  in 
every  way,  rose,  pearl  and  russet,  a  Romney  touched 
with  pride  and  daring,  and  the  most  sophisticated  of 
all  the  Chadwicks;  yet  she,  too,  brooded,  half  mer 
rily,  half  sombrely,  on  Miss  Toner,  her  elbows  on 
the  table  for  the  better  contemplation.  Palgrave's 
absorption  was  manifest;  but  he  did  not  brood.  He 
held  his  head  high,  frowned  and,  for  the  most  part, 
looked  out  of  the  window. 

Oldmeadow  sat  between  Palgrave  and  Nancy  and 
it  was  with  Nancy  that  the  magic  ended.  Nancy  did 
not  share  in  the  radiance.  She  smiled  and  was  very 
busy  cutting  the  bread  and  butter ;  but  she  was  pale ; 
not  puzzled,  but  preoccupied.  Poor  darling  Nancy; 
always  his  special  pet ;  to  him  always  the  dearest  and 
most  loveable  of  girls.  Not  at  all  a  Romney.  With 
her  pale,  fresh  face,  dark  hair  and  beautiful  hands 
she  suggested,  rather,  a  country  lady  of  the  seven 
teenth  century  painted  by  Vandyck.  A  rural  Van- 
dyck  who  might  have  kept  a  devout  and  merry 
journal,  surprising  later  generations  by  its  mixture 
of  ingenuousness  and  wisdom.  Her  lips  were  medi 
tative,  and  her  grey  eyes  nearly  closed  when  she 
smiled  in  a  way  that  gave  to  her  gaiety  and  extraor 
dinary  sweetness  and  intimacy.  Nancy  always 
looked  as  if  she  loved  you  when  she  smiled  at  you; 
and  indeed  she  did  love  you.  She  had  spent  her  life 
among  people  she  loved  and  if  she  could  not  be  in 
timate  she  was  remote  and  silent. 


26  ADRIENNE  TONER 

But  there  was  no  hope  for  Nancy.  He  saw  that 
finally,  as  he  drank  his  tea  in  silence  and  looked 
across  the  primroses  at  the  marvel  of  the  age. 

Miss  Toner's  was  an  insignificant  little  head,  if 
indeed  it  could  be  called  little,  since  it  was  too  large 
for  her  body,  and  her  way  of  dressing  her  hair  in 
wide  braids,  pinned  round  it  and  projecting  over  the 
ears,  added  to  the  top-heavy  effect.  The  hair  was 
her  only  indubitable  beauty,  fine  and  fair  and  spark 
ling  like  the  palest,  purest  metal.  It  was  cut  in  a 
light  fringe  across  a  projecting  forehead  and  her 
mouth  and  chin  projected,  too;  so  that,  as  he  termed 
it  to  himself,  it  was  a  squashed-in  face,  ugly  in  struc 
ture,  the  small  nose,  from  its  depressed  bridge,  jut 
ting  forward  in  profile,  the  lips,  in  profile,  flat  yet 
prominent.  Nevertheless  he  owned,  studying  her 
over  his  tea-cup,  that  the  features,  ugly,  even  trivial 
in  detail,  had  in  their  assemblage  something  of  un 
expected  force.  Her  tranquil  smile  had  potency  and 
he  suddenly  became  aware  of  her  flat,  gentle  voice, 
infrequent,  yet  oddly  dominating.  Sensitive  as  he 
was  to  voices,  he  saw  it  as  a  bland,  blue  ribbon  rolled 
out  among  broken  counters  of  colour,  and  listened 
to  its  sound  before  he  listened  to  what  it  said.  All 
the  other  voices  went  up  and  down;  all  the  others 
half  said  things  and  let  them  drop  or  trail.  She  said 
things  to  the  end :  when  the  ribbon  began  it  was  un 
rolled;  and  it  seemed,  always,  to  make  a  silence  in 
which  it  could  be  watched. 

"We  went  up  high  into  the  sunlight,"  she  said, 
"and  one  saw  nothing  but  snow  and  sky.  The  bells 
were  ringing  on  the  mountains  beneath;  one  heard 
no  other  sound.  I  have  never  forgotten  the  moment. 
It  seemed  an  inspiration  of  joy  and  peace  and 
strength." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  27 

"You've  walked  so  much  in  the  Alps,  haven't  you, 
Roger?"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick.  "Miss  Toner  has 
motored  over  every  pass." 

"In  the  French  Alps.  I  don't  like  Switzerland," 
said  Old  meadow. 

"I  think  I  love  the  mountains  everywhere,"  said 
Miss  Toner,  "when  they  go  so  high  into  the  sky  and 
have  the  sun  and  snow  on  their  summits.  But  I  love 
the  mountains  of  Savoy  and  Jura  best." 

It  vexed  him  that  she  should.  She  was  a  person  to 
stay  in  and  prefer  Switzerland.  "Joy  and  peace  and 
strength,"  echoed  in  his  ears  and  with  the  words, 
rudely,  and  irrelevantly,  the  image  of  the  pink 
glazed  tube  with  the  gilt  stopper.  Miss  Toner's 
teeth  were  as  white  as  they  were  benignant. 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  those  flowers,"  said  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick.  "  I've  only  been  to  Vevey  in  the  summer;  oh, 
years  and  years  ago.  So  dull.  Fields  of  flowers. 
You've  seen  them,  too,  of  course,  Roger.  All  the 
things  we  grow  with  such  pains.  My  Saint  Brigid 
anemones  never  really  do  —  though  what  I  put  in  of 
leaf-mould!" 

"  You'll  see  anemones,  fields  of  them,  in  the  Alpine 
meadows;  and  violets  and  lilies;  the  little  lilies  of 
Saint  Bruno  that  look  like  freesias.  I  love  them  best 
of  all,"  the  bland,  blue  ribbon  unrolled.  "  You  shall  go 
with  me  some  day,  Mrs.  Chadwick.  We'll  go  to 
gether."  And,  smiling  at  her  as  if  they  had,  already, 
a  happy  secret  between  them,  Miss  Toner  continued: 
"We'll  go  this  very  summer,  if  you  will.  We'll  motor 
all  the  way.  I'll  come  and  get  you  here.  For  a  whole 
month  you  shall  forget  that  you've  ever  had  a  fam 
ily  to  bring  up  or  a  house  to  take  care  of  or  anemones 
that  won't  grow  properly  —  even  in  leaf-mould." 


28'  ADR1ENNE  TONER 

Her  eyes,  as  they  rested  on  her  hostess,  seemed  to 
impart  more  than  her  words.  They  imparted  some 
thing  to  Oldmeadow.  He  had  not  before  conjectured 
that  Eleanor  Chadwick  might  be  bored  or  tired,  nor 
realized  that  since  Barbara's  birth,  fourteen  years 
ago,  she  had  not  left  Coldbrooks  except  to  go  to 
London  for  a  week's  shopping,  or  to  stay  with  friends 
in  the  English  country.  He  had  taken  Eleanor  Chad- 
wick's  life  for  granted.  It  seemed  Miss  Toner's 
function  not  to  take  things  that  could  be  changed  for 
granted.  It  was  easy  to  do  that  of  course,  when  you 
had  a  large  banking  account  behind  you ;  and  yet  he 
felt  that  M  iss  Toner  would  have  had  the  faculty  of 
altering  accepted  standards,  even  had  she  been 
materially  unequipped.  She  and  Mrs.  Chadwick 
continued  to  look  at  each  other  for  a  moment  and 
the  older  woman,  half  bashfully,  seemed,  with  what 
softness,  compelled  to  a  tacit  confession.  She'd 
never  known  before  that  she  was  tired.  Springs  of 
adventure  and  girlishness  within  her  were  perhaps 
unsealed  by  Miss  Toner's  gaze. 

"And  where  do  the  rest  of  us  come  in!"  Barney 
ejaculated.  He  was  so  happy  in  the  triumph  of  his 
beloved  that  his  eyes,  their  sleepiness  banished,  were 
almost  as  brilliant  as  Palgrave's. 

"But  you're  always  coming  in  with  Mrs. 
Chadwick,"  said  Miss  Toner.  She  looked  at  him,  if 
with  a  touch  of  tender  humour,  exactly  as  she  looked 
at  his  mother;  but  then  she  looked  at  them  both  as  if 
they  were  precious  to  her.  "I  don't  want  you  to 
come  in  at  all  for  that  month.  I  want  her  to  forget 
you  ever  existed.  There  ought  to  be  waters  of  Lethe 
for  everyone  every  now  and  then,  even  in  this  life. 
We  come  out,  after  the  plunge  into  forgetfulness,  far 


ADRIENNE  TONER  29 

brighter  and  stronger  and  with  a  renovated  self  to 
love  the  better  with.  Afterwards  —  after  she's  had 
her  dip  —  you'll  all  come  in,  if  you  want  to,  with  me. 
I'll  get  a  car  big  enough.  You,  too,  Miss  Averil;  and 
Mr.  Oldmeadow;  though  he  and  Barney  and  Pal- 
grave  may  have  to  take  turns  sitting  on  the  port 
manteaus." 

"Barney"  and  "Palgrave"  already.  Her  unpre 
tentious  mastery  alarmed  almost  as  much  as  it 
amused  him.  He  thanked  her,  with  his  dry  smile,  say 
ing  that  he  really  preferred  to  see  the  Alps  on  his  legs 
and  asked,  to  temper  the  possible  acerbity,  "Do  you 
drive  yourself?"  for  it  seemed  in  keeping  with  his 
picture  of  her  as  an  invading  providence  that  she 
should  with  her  own  hand  conduct  the  car  of  fate. 
He  could  see  her,  somehow,  taking  the  hairpin  curves 
on  the  Galibier. 

But  Miss  Toner  said  she  did  not  drive.  "One 
can't  see  flowers  if  one  drives  oneself;  and  it  would 
hurt  dear  Macfarlane's  feelings  so.  Macfarlane  is 
my  chauffeur  and  he's  been  with  me  for  years ;  from 
the  time  we  first  began  to  have  motors,  my  mother 
and  I,  out  in  California.  Apart  from  that,  I  should 
like  it,  I  think,  with  the  sense  of  risk  and  venture  it 
must  give.  I  like  the  sense  of  high  adventure  —  of 
' Childe  Roland  to  the  dark  tower  came' ;  don't  you, 
Palgrave?  It's  life,  isn't  it?  The  pulse  of  life.  Dan 
ger  and  venture  and  conquest.  And  then  resting,  on 
the  heights,  while  one  hears  the  bells  beneath  one." 

This,  thought  Oldmeadow,  as  he  adjusted  his  glass 
the  better  to  examine  Miss  Toner,  must  prove  itself 
too  much,  even  for  Palgrave  to  swallow.  But  Pal- 
grave  swallowed  it  without  a  tremor.  His  eyes  on 
hers  he  answered:  "Yes,  I  feel  life  like  that,  too." 


30  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Mrs.  Chadwick,  and  Old- 
meadow  blessed  her  antidote  to  the  suffocating 
sweetness:  "  I'm  afraid  I  don't!  I  don't  think  I  know 
anything  about  risks  and  dangers ;  or  about  conquest 
either.  I'm  sure  I've  never  conquered  anything; 
though  I  have  been  dreadfully  afraid  of  ill-tempered 
servants  —  if  that  counts,  and  never  let  them  see  it. 
Barbara  had  such  an  odious  nurse.  She  tried,  simply, 
to  keep  me  out  of  the  nursery;  but  she  didn't  suc 
ceed.  And  there  was  a  Scotch  cook  once,  with  red 
hair  —  that  so  often  goes  with  a  bad  temper,  doesn't 
it?  Do  you  remember,  Barney?  —  your  dear  father 
had  to  go  down  to  the  kitchen  when  she  was  found 
lying  quite,  quite  drunk  under  the  table.  But  cooks 
and  nurses  can't  be  called  risks  —  and  I've  never 
cared  for  hunting." 

Miss  Toner  was  quietly  laughing,  and  indeed 
everybody  laughed. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Chadwick,"  she  said.  And  then  she 
added:  "How  can  a  mother  say  she  has  not  known 
risks  and  dangers?  I  think  you've  thought  only  of 
other  people  for  all  your  life  and  never  seen  yourself 
at  all.  Alpine  passes  aren't  needed  to  prove  people's 
courage  and  endurance." 

Oldmeadow  now  saw,  from  the  sudden  alarm  and 
perplexity  of  Mrs.  Chadwick's  expression,  that  she 
was  wondering  if  the  marvellous  guest  alluded  to 
the  perils  of  child-birth.  Perhaps  she  did.  She  was 
ready,  he  imagined,  to  allude  to  anything. 

"You're  right  about  her  never  having  seen  her 
self,"  said  Palgrave,  nodding  across  at  Miss  Toner. 
"She  never  has.  She's  incapable  of  self-analysis." 

"But  she's  precious  sharp  when  it  comes  to  ana 
lysing  other  people,  aren't  you,  Mummy  dear!"  said 
Barney. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  31 

"I  don't  think  she  is,"  said  Meg.  "I  think 
Mummy  sees  people  rather  as  she  sees  flowers; 
things  to  be  fed  and  staked  and  protected." 

"You're  always  crabbing,  Mummy,  Meg.  It's  a 
shame!  —  Isn't  it  a  shame,  Mummy  dear!"  Barbara 
protested,  and  Barney  tempered  the  apparent  criti 
cism  —  peacemaker  as  he  usually  was  —  with : 
"But  you  have  to  understand  flowers  jolly  well  to 
make  them  grow.  And  we  do  her  credit,  don't  we!" 

Miss  Toner  looked  from  one  to  the  other  as  they 
spoke,  with  her  clear,  benignant,  comprehending 
gaze,  and  Mrs.  Chadwick  stared  with  her  March 
Hare  ingenuousness  that  had  its  full  share,  too,  of 
March  Hare  shrewdness.  She  undertook  no  self- 
justification,  commenting  merely,  in  the  pause  that 
followed  Barney's  contribution:  "  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean  by  self-analysis  unless  it's  thinking  about 
yourself  and  mothers  certainly  haven't  much  time 
for  that.  You're  quite  right  there,  my  dear,"  she 
nodded  at  Miss  Toner,  adding  in  a  tone  intended 
specially  for  her:  "But  young  people  often  exagger 
ate  things  that  are  quite,  quite  simple  when  they 
come." 


CHAPTER  IV 

"COME  out  and  have  a  stroll,"  said  Oldmeadow  to 
Nancy.  Tea  was  over  and  a  primrose-coloured  sun 
set  filled  the  sky.  They  walked  up  and  down  the 
gravelled  terrace  before  the  house. 

Cold  brooks  stood  high,  yet  encircled  by  still 
higher  stretches  of  bare  or  wooded  upland.  Its 
walled  garden,  where  vegetable  beds  and  lines  of 
cordon  apple-trees  were  pleasingly  diversified  by 
the  herbaceous  borders  that  ran  beneath  the  walls, 
lay  behind  it ;  most  of  the  bedroom  windows  looked 
down  into  the  garden.  Before  it,  to  the  south,  lawns 
and  meadows  dropped  to  a  lake  fed  by  the  brooks 
that  gave  the  place  its  name.  Beyond  the  lake  were 
lower  copses,  tinkling  now  with  the  musical  run  of 
water  and  climbing  softly  on  either  side,  so  that 
from  the  terrace  one  had  a  vast  curved  space  of  sky 
before  one.  The  sun  was  setting  over  the  woods. 

It  was  Barney's  grandfather,  enriched  by  large 
shipping  enterprises  in  Liverpool,  wrho  had  bought 
the  pleasant  old  house,  half  farm,  half  manor,  and 
Barney's  father  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  local 
squire.  But  the  family  fortunes  were  much  dwindled, 
and  though  Barney  still  nursed  the  project  of  return 
ing  one  day  to  farm  his  own  land  there  was  little 
prospect  of  such  a  happy  restoration.  In  spite  of  the 
Russian  ballet  and  London  portents,  he  was  fonder, 
far,  of  Coldbrooks  than  of  all  of  them  put  together. 
But  he  could  afford  neither  time  nor  money  for 
hunting,  and  his  home  was  his  only  for  week-ends 
and  holidays.  It  was  the  most  loveable  of  homes, 


ADRIENNE  TONER  33 

more  stately  without  than  within,  built  of  grey-gold 
Cotswold  stone  with  beautiful  stone  chimneys  and 
mullioned  windows  and  three  gables  facing  the 
southern  sky.  Within,  everything  was  rather  bare 
and  shabby.  There  was  no  central  heating,  and  no 
bathrooms.  The  tiger-skin  that  lay  on  the  stone 
flags  of  the  hall  had  lost  all  its  hair.  The  piano  rat 
tled  and  wheezed  in  many  of  its  notes.  The  patterns 
of  the  drawing-room  chintzes  were  faded  to  a  mere 
dim  rosy  riot,  and  stuffing  protruded  from  the  angles 
of  the  leather  arm-chairs  in  the  smoking-room.  But 
it  was,  all  the  same,  a  delightful  house  to  stay  in. 
Eleanor  Chadwick's  shrewdness  showed  itself  in  her 
housekeeping.  She  knew  what  were  the  essentials. 
There  was  always  a  blazing  fire  in  one's  bedroom  in 
the  evening  and  the  hottest  of  water  with  one's  bath 
in  the  morning.  Under  the  faded  chintz,  every  chair 
in  the  drawing-room  was  comfortable.  The  toast 
was  always  crisp ;  the  tea  always  made  with  boiling 
water;  the  servants  cheerful.  Mrs.  Chadwick  had  a 
great  gift  with  servants.  She  could  reprove  with 
extreme  plaintiveness,  yet  never  wound  a  suscepti 
bility,  and  the  servants'  hall,  as  she  often  remarked 
with  justice,  was  smarter  and  prettier  than  the 
drawing-room.  Johnson,  the  old  butler,  had  been  at 
Coldbrooks  since  before  her  marriage,  and  the  grey- 
haired  parlourmaid  had  come  with  her  when  she  had 
come  as  a  bride.  These  familiar  faces  added  depth 
to  the  sense  of  intimacy  that  was  the  gift  of  Cold- 
brooks.  Oldmeadow  loved  the  place  as  much  as  any 
of  the  Chadwicks  did,  and  was  as  much  at  home 
in  it. 

"There  is  a  blackcap,"  said  Nancy,  "down  in  the 
copse.   I  felt  sure  I  heard  one  this  morning." 


34  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"So  it  is,"  said  Oldmeadow.  They  paused  to 
listen. 

"It's  the  happiest  of  all,"  said  Nancy. 

He  had  been  wondering  about  Nancy  ever  since 
he  had  come.  It  was  not  her  voice,  gentle  and  medi 
tative,  that  told  him  now  she  was  unhappy.  It  was 
rather  in  contrast  to  the  bird's  clear  ecstasy  that  he 
felt  the  heaviness  of  her  heart. 

"It's  wilder  than  the  thrush  and  blackbird,  isn't 
it?"  he  said.  "Less  conscious.  The  thrush  is  always 
listening  to  himself,  I  feel.  Do  you  want  to  go  to  the 
Alps  with  Miss  Toner,  Nancy?" 

Nancy  would  not  see  Miss  Toner  as  an  angelic 
being  and  he  wanted  to  know  how  she  did  see  her. 
The  others,  it  was  evident,  thought  her  angelic  by  a 
sort  of  group  suggestion.  She  thought  herself  so,  to 
begin  with ;  snow,  flowers,  bells  and  all  the  rest  of  it ; 
and  they,  ingenuous  creatures,  saw  the  mango-tree 
rising  to  heaven  as  the  calm-eyed  Yogi  willed  they 
should.  But  Nancy  did  not  see  the  mango- tree.  She 
was  outside  the  group  consciousness  —  with  him. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  now  said  quickly;  and  she  added: 
"  I  don't  mean  that  I  don't  like  her.  It's  only  that  I 
don't  know  her.  How  can  she  want  us?  She  came 
only  yesterday." 

"But,  you  see,  she  means  you  to  know  her.  And 
when  she's  known  she  couldn't  imagine  that  anyone 
wouldn't  like  her." 

"I  don't  think  she's  conceited,  if  you  mean  that, 
Roger." 

"Conceit,"  he  rejoined,  "may  be  of  an  order  so 
monstrous  that  it  loses  all  pettiness.  You've  seen 
more  of  her  than  I  have,  of  course." 

"I  think  she's  good.   She  wants  to  do  good.   She 


ADRIENNE  TONER  35 

wants  to  make  people  happy;  and  she  does,"  said 
Nancy. 

"By  taking  them  about  in  motors,  you  mean." 

"In  every  way.  She's  always  thinking  about 
pleasing  them.  In  big  and  little  ways.  Aunt  Eleanor 
loves  her  already.  They  had  a  long  talk  last  night  in 
Aunt  Eleanor's  room.  She's  given  Meg  the  most 
beautiful  little  pendant  —  pearl  and  amethyst,  an 
old  Italian  setting.  She  had  it  on  last  night  and  Meg 
said  how  lovely  it  was  and  she  simply  lifted  it  off  her 
own  neck  and  put  it  around  Meg's.  Meg  had  to  keep 
it.  She  gave  it  in  such  a  way  that  one  would  have  to 
keep  it." 

"  Rather  useful,  mustn't  it  be,  to  have  pendants  so 
plentifully  about  you  that  you  can  hand  them  out  to 
the  first  young  lady  who  takes  a  fancy  to  them? 
Has  she  given  you  anything,  Nancy?" 

"  I'm  sure  she  would.  But  I  shall  be  more  careful 
than  Meg  was." 

"Perhaps  Meg  will  practise  carelessness,  since  it's 
so  remunerative.  What  has  she  given  Palgrave? 
He  seems  absorbed." 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,"  said  Nancy.  "It's  wonder 
ful  for  Palgrave,  you  know,  Roger,  because  he  is 
rather  sad  and  bitter,  really,  just  now;  and  I  think 
she  will  make  him  much  happier.  They  went  off  to 
the  woods  together  directly  after  breakfast." 

"What's  he  sad  and  bitter  about?  You  mean  his 
socialism  and  all  the  rest  of  it?" 

"Yes;  and  religion.  You  remember;  when  you 
were  here  at  Christmas." 

"I  remember  that  he  was  very  foolish  and  made 
me  lose  my  temper.  Is  there  a  chance  of  Miss  Toner 
turning  him  into  a  good  capitalist  and  churchman?" 


36  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Nancy  smiled,  but  very  faintly.  "  It's  serious,  you 
know,  Roger." 

"What  she's  done  to  them  already,  you  mean?" 

"Yes.  What  she's  done  already.  She  had  Meg, 
after  lunch,  in  her  room.  Meg  looked  quite  different 
when  she  came  out.  It's  very  strange,  Roger.  It's  as 
if  she'd  changed  them  all.  I  almost  feel,"  Nancy 
looked  round  at  the  happy  house  and  up  at  the 
tranquil  elms  where  the  rooks  were  noisily  preparing 
for  bed,  "as  if  nothing  could  be  the  same  again,  since 
she's  come."  Her  clear  profile  revealed  little  of  the 
trouble  in  her  heart.  They  had  not  named  Barney; 
but  he  must  be  named. 

"It's  white  magic,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "You  and 
I  will  keep  our  heads,  my  dear.  We  don't  want  to  be 
changed,  do  we?  What  has  she  done  to  Barney?  He 
is  in  love  with  her,  of  course." 

"Of  course,"  said  Nancy. 

He  had  never  been  sure  before  that  she  was  in  love 
with  Barney.  She  was  nine  years  younger  and  had 
been  a  child  during  years  of  his  manhood.  Old- 
meadow  had  thought  it  in  his  own  fond  imagination 
only  that  the  link  between  them  was  so  close.  But 
now  he  knew  what  Nancy  herself,  perhaps,  had 
hardly  known  till  then.  The  colour  did  not  rise  in 
her  cheek,  but  through  her  voice,  through  her  bear 
ing,  went  a  subtle  steadying  of  herself.  "Of  course 
he  is  in  love  with  her,"  she  repeated  and  he  felt  that 
she  forced  herself  to  face  the  truth. 

They  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  terrace.  A  little 
path  turned  aside  towards  the  copse  and  the  gras^ 
beneath  the  trees  was  scattered  with  the  pale  radi 
ance  of  primroses.  Nancy  seemed  to  look  at  the 
flowers,  but  she  sought  no  refuge  in  comment  on 


ADRIENNE  TONER  37 

them ;  and  as  they  looked  in  silence,  while  the  rooks, 
circling  and  cawing  above,  settled  on  their  nests,  a 
sense  of  arrested  time  came  to  Oldmeadow,  and  a 
phrase  of  music,  blissful  in  its  sadness,  where  gentle 
German  words  went  to  a  gentle  German  strain, 
passed  through  his  mind.  Something  of  Schubert's 
-  Young  Love  —  First  Grief.  It  seemed  to  pierce 
to  him  from  the  young  girl's  heart  and  he  knew  that 
he  would  never  forget  and  that  Nancy  would  never 
forget  the  moment;  the  rooks;  the  primroses;  the 
limpid  sky.  The  blackcap's  flitting  melody  had 
ceased. 

"Do  you  think  she  may  make  him  happy?"  he 
asked.  It  was  sweet  to  him  to  know  that  she  had  no 
need  of  a  refuge  from  him.  She  could  take  counsel 
with  him  as  candidly  as  if  there  had  been  no  tacit 
avowal  between  them.  She  looked  round  at  him  as 
they  went  on  walking  and  he  saw  pain  and  perplex 
ity  in  her  eyes. 

"What  do  you  think,  Roger?"  she  said.  "Can 
she?" 

"Well,  might  she,  if  Barney  is  stupid  enough?" 

"I  don't  feel  he  would  have  to  be  stupid  to  be 
happy  with  her,  Roger.  You  are  not  fair  to  her. 
What  I  wonder  is  whether  he  will  be  strong  enough 
not  to  be  quite  swept  away." 

"You  think  she'll  overpower  him?  Leave  him 
with  no  mind  of  his  own?" 

"Something  like  that  perhaps.  Because  she's  very 
strong.  And  she  is  so  different.  Everything  in  her  is 
different.  She  has  nothing  —  nothing  with  us,  or 
we  with  her.  We  haven't  done  the  same  things  or 
seen  the  same  sights  or  thought  the  same  thoughts. 
I  hardly  feel  as  if  the  trees  could  look  the  same  to  her 


38  ADRIENNE  TONER 

as  they  do  to  us  or  the  birds  sound  the  same.  And 
she'll  want  such  different  things." 

"Perhaps  she'll  want  his  things,"  Oldmeadow 
mused.  "She  seems  to  like  them  quite  immensely 
already." 

"Ah,  but  only  because  she's  going  to  do  something 
to  them,"  said  Nancy.  "Only  because  she's  going  to 
change  them.  I  don't  think  she'd  like  anything  she 
could  do  nothing  for." 

Nancy  had  quite  grown  up.  She  had  seen  further 
than  he  had.  He  felt  her  quiet  comment  big  with 
intuitive  wisdom. 

"  You  see  deep,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "There's  some 
thing  portentous  in  your  picture,  you  know." 

"There  is  something  portentous  about  her,  Roger. 
That  is  just  what  I  feel.  That  is  just  what  troubles 
me." 

"She  may  be  portentous,  in  relation  to  us,  and 
what  she  may  do  to  us,"  said  Oldmeadow,  "but  I'm 
convinced,  for  all  her  marvels,  that  she's  a  very 
ordinary  young  person.  Don't  let  us  magnify  her. 
If  she's  not  magnified  she  won't  work  so  many  mar 
vels.  They're  largely  an  affair,  I'm  sure  of  it,  of 
motors  and  pendants.  She's  ordinary.  That's  what 
I  take  my  stand  on." 

"If  she's  ordinary,  why  do  you  feel,  too,  that 
she'll  sweep  Barney  away?"  Nancy  was  not  at  all 
convinced  by  his  demonstration. 

"Why,  because  he's  in  love  with  her.  That's  all. 
Her  only  menace  is  in  her  difference ;  her  complacency. 
What  it  comes  to,  I  suppose,  is  that  we  must  hope, 
if  they're  to  be  happy,  that  he'll  like  her  things." 

"Yes;  but  what  it  comes  to  then,  Roger,  is  that 
we  shall  lose  Barney,"  Nancy  said. 


CHAPTER  V 

Miss  TONER  did  not  come  down  to  breakfast  next 
morning  and  Oldmeadow  was  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  disproportionate  relief  at  not  finding  her  in  the 
big,  bare,  panelled  dining-room  where  a  portrait  of 
Mrs.  Chadwick  in  court  dress  presided  over  one 
wall  and  Meg  and  Barney  played  with  rabbits, 
against  an  imitation  Gainsborough  background,  on 
another.  Both  pictures  were  an  affliction  to  Barney; 
but  to  Mrs.  Chadwick's  eye  they  left  nothing  to  be 
desired  in  beauty,  and,  when  Barney  was  not  there 
to  protest,  she  would  still  fondly  point  out  the  length 
of  eyelash  that  the  artist  had  so  faithfully  captured 
in  the  two  children. 

The  sense  of  change  and  foreboding  that  he  and 
Nancy,  with  differences,  had  recognized  in  their 
talk,  must  have  haunted  Oldmeadow's  slumbers,  for 
he  had  dreamed  of  Miss  Toner,  coming  towards  him 
along  the  terrace,  in  white,  as  she  had  been  at  dinner, 
with  the  beautiful  pearls  she  had  worn,  lifting  her 
hand  and  saying  as  the  rooks  cawed  overhead  —  for 
the  rooks  cawed  though  the  moon  was  brightly 
shining:  "I  can  hear  them,  too." 

There  had  been  nothing  to  suggest  such  a  dream 
in  her  demeanour  at  dinner;  nothing  portentous, 
that  is.  Simple  for  all  her  competence,  girlish  for  all 
the  splendour  of  her  white  array,  she  had  spoken 
little,  looking  at  them  all,  and  listening,  gravely 
sometimes,  but  with  a  pervading  gentleness;  and 
once  or  twice  he  had  found  her  eyes  on  his;  those 
large,  light  eyes,  dispassionately  and  impersonally 


40  ADRIENNE  TONER 

benignant,  giving  him,  with  their  suggestion  of  seeing 
around  but  also  very  far  beyond  you,  a  curious  sense 
of  space.  Once  or  twice  he  had  felt  himself  a  little  at 
a  loss  as  he  met  their  gaze  —  it  had  endeared  her  to 
him  the  less  that  she  should  almost  discompose  him 
—  and  he  had  felt  anew  the  presence  of  power  in  her 
ugly  little  face  and  even  of  beauty  in  her  colourless 
skin,  her  colourless  yet  so  living  eyes,  and  her  crown 
of  wondrous  gold.  It  had  been,  no  doubt,  this  ele 
ment  of  aesthetic  significance,  merging  with  Nancy's 
words,  that  had  built  up  the  figure  of  his  dream ;  for 
so  he  had  seen  her,  grey  and  white  and  gold  in  the 
unearthly  light,  while  the  rooks  cawed  overhead. 

His  friends  this  morning,  though  they  were  all 
talking  of  her,  possessed  in  their  gaiety  and  lightness 
of  heart  an  exorcising  quality.  So  much  gaiety  and 
lightness  couldn't  be  quenched  or  quelled  —  if  that 
was  what  Miss  Toner's  influence  menaced.  Between 
them  all  they  would  manage  to  quench  and  quell 
Miss  Toner,  rather,  and  he  recovered  his  sense  of  her 
fundamental  absurdity  as  he  felt  anew  their  instinc 
tive  and  unself-conscious  wisdom. 

"  Isn't  it  odd,  Roger,  she  hardly  knows  England  at 
all,"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick,  as  he  finished  his  porridge, 
made  his  tea  at  the  side-table,  and  took  his  place 
beside  her.  "She's  been  so  little  here,  although  she 
seems  to  have  travelled  everywhere  and  lived  every 
where." 

"Except  in  her  own  country,"  Old  meadow  ven 
tured  the  surmise,  but  urbanely,  for  Barney  sat 
opposite  him. 

"Oh,  but  she's  travelled  there,  too,  immensely," 
said  Barney.  "She's  really  spent  most  of  her  life  in 
America,  I  think,  Mother.  She  has  a  little  sort  of 


ADRIENNE  TONER  41 

bungalow  on  the  coast  in  California,  orange-trees 
and  roses  and  all  the  rest  of  it ;  a  fairy-tale  place ;  and 
a  house  in  the  mountains  in  New  England,  high  up 
among  the  pine- woods." 

"And  a  private  train,  I  suppose,  to  carry  her  from 
one  to  the  other.  What  splendid  pearls,"  said  Old- 
meadow,  buttering  his  toast.  "Haven't  you  asked 
for  them  yet,  Meg?" 

Meg  was  not  easily  embarrassed.  " Not  yet,"  she 
said.  "I'm  waiting  for  them,  though.  Meanwhile 
this  is  pretty,  isn't  it?"  The  pendant  hung  on  her 
breast. 

"  I  believe  she  would  give  Meg  her  pearls,  or  any 
of  us.  I  believe  she'd  give  anything  to  anyone," 
sighed  Mrs.  Chadwick.  "She  doesn't  seem  to  think 
about  money  or  things  of  that  sort,  material  things 
you  know,  at  all.  I  do  wish  I  could  get  the  map  of 
America  straight.  All  being  in  those  uneven  squares, 
like  Turkish  Delight,  makes  it  so  difficult.  One  can't 
remember  which  lump  is  which  —  though  Texas,  in 
my  geography,  was  pale  green.  The  nice  tinned 
things  come  from  California,  don't  they?  And  New 
England  is  near  Boston  —  the  hub  of  the  universe, 
that  dear,  droll  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  used  to  call 
it.  I  suppose  they  are  very  clever  there.  She  has  been 
wonderfully  educated.  There's  nothing  she  doesn't 
seem  to  have  learned.  And  her  maid  adores  her, 
Roger.  I  was  talking  to  her  just  now.  Such  a  nice 
French  woman  with  quite  beautiful  dark  eyes,  but 
very  melancholy;  we  make  a  mistake,  I  believe,  in 
imagining  that  the  French  are  a  gay  people.  I  al 
ways  think  that's  such  a  good  sign.  So  kind  about 
my  dreadful  accent." 

"A  good  sign  to  have  your  maid  like  you,  Mummy, 


42  ADRIENNE  TONER 

or  to  have  melancholy  eyes?"  Meg  inquired.  "I 
think  she's  a  rather  ill-tempered  looking  woman. 
But  of  course  anybody  would  adore  Adrienne.  She's 
an  angel  of  patience,  I'm  sure.  I  never  met  such  an 
angel.  We  don't  grow  them  here,"  said  Meg,  while 
Barney's  triumphant  eyes  said:  "I  told  you  so,"  to 
Oldmeadow  across  the  table. 

After  breakfast,  in  the  sunlight  on  the  terrace, 
Mrs.  Chadwick  confided  her  hopes  to  him.  "She 
really  is  an  angel,  Roger.  I  never  met  anyone  in  the 
least  like  her.  So  good,  and  gifted,  too,  and  all  that 
money.  Only  think  what  it  would  mean  for  dear 
Barney.  He  could  take  back  the  farm ;  the  lease  falls 
in  next  year,  and  come  back  here  to  live." 

"You  think  she  cares  for  him?" 

"Yes;  indeed  I  do.  She  cares  for  us  all,  already,  as 
you  can  see.  But  I  believe  it's  because  she's  adopt 
ing  us  all,  as  her  family.  And  she  said  to  me  yester 
day  that  she  disapproved  so  much  of  our  English 
way  of  turning  out  mothers  and  thought  families 
ought  to  love  each  other  and  live  together,  young 
and  old.  That's  from  being  so  much  in  France,  per 
haps.  I  told  her  /  shouldn't  have  liked  it  at  all  if  old 
Mrs.  Chadwick  had  wanted  to  come  and  live  with 
Francis  and  me.  She  was  such  a  masterful  old  lady, 
Roger,  very  Low  Church,  and  quite  dreadfully 
jealous  of  Francis.  And  eldest  sons  should  inherit, 
of  course,  or  what  would  become  of  estates?  My 
dear  father  used  always  to  say  that  the  greatness  of 
England  was  founded  on  landed  estates.  I  told  her 
that.  But  she  looked  at  me  quite  gravely  as  if  she 
hardly  understood  when  I  tried  to  explain  —  it  all 
goes  in  with  Waterloo  being  won  on  the  fields  of 
Eton,  doesn't  it?  It's  quite  curious  the  feeling  of 


ADRIENNE  TONER  43 

restfulness  she  gives  me,  about  Barney  —  a  sort  of 
Nunc  Dimittis  feeling,  you  know." 

"Only  she  doesn't  want  you  to  depart.  Well, 
that's  certainly  all  to  the  good  and  let's  hope  Eng 
land's  greatness  won't  suffer  from  the  irregularity. 
Has  she  told  you  much  about  her  life?  her  people?" 
Oldmeadow  asked.  He  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart 
to  shadow  such  ingenuous  contentment.  And  after 
all  what  was  there  to  say  against  Miss  Toner,  except 
that  she  would  change  things? 

"Oh,  a  great  deal.  Everything  I  asked;  for  I 
thought  it  best,  quite  casually  you  know,  to  find  out 
what  I  could.  Not  people  of  any  position,  you  know, 
Roger,  though  I  think  her  mother  was  better  in  that 
way  than  her  father ;  for  his  father  made  tooth-paste. 
It's  from  the  tooth-paste  all  the  money  comes.  But 
it's  always  puzzling  about  Americans,  isn't  it?  And 
it  doesn't  really  make  any  difference,  once  they're 
over  here,  does  it?" 

"Not  if  they've  got  the  money,"  he  could  not 
suppress;  it  was  for  his  own  personal  enjoyment  and 
Mrs.  Chadwick  cloudlessly  concurred:  "No,  not  if 
they  have  the  money.  And  she  has,  you  see.  And 
besides  that  she's  good  and  gifted  and  has  had  such 
a  wonderful  education.  Her  mother  died  five  years 
ago.  She  showed  me  two  pictures  of  her.  A  beauti 
ful  woman ;  very  artistic-looking.  Rather  one's  idea 
of  Corinne,  though  Corinne  was  really  Madame  de 
Stael,  I  believe;  and  she  was  very  plain." 

"Was  she  dressed  like  Queen  Louise  of  Prussia; 
coming  down  the  steps,  you  know,  in  the  Empire 
dress  with  white  bound  round  her  head?" 

"Yes;  she  was.  How  did  you  know,  Roger?  Ex 
tremely  picturesque;  but  quite  a  lady,  too.  At 


44  ADRIENNE  TONER 

least"  —  Mrs.  Chadwick  hesitated,  perplexed  be 
tween  kindliness  and  candour  —  "almost." 

"I  heard  about  her  from  Mrs.  Aldesey.  You  re 
member  my  American  friend.  She  didn't  know  her, 
but  had  seen  her  years  ago  in  New  York  in  that 
romantic  costume." 

Mrs.  Chadwick  felt  perhaps  the  slight  irony  in  hi» 
voice,  for  she  rejoined,  though  not  at  all  provoca 
tively:  "Why  shouldn't  people  look  romantic  if  they 
can?  I  should  think  Mrs.  Toner  had  a  much  more 
romantic  life  than  Mrs.  Aldesey.  She's  gone  on  just 
as  we  have,  hasn't  she,  seeing  always  the  same  peo 
ple;  and  being  conventional.  Whereas  Adrienne  and 
her  mother  seem  to  have  known  everyone  strange 
and  interesting  wherever  they  went ;  great  scientists 
and  thinkers,  you  know;  and  poets  and  pianists. 
Adrienne  told  me  that  her  mother  always  seemed  to 
her  to  have  great  wings  and  that's  just  what  I  felt 
about  her  when  I  looked  at  her.  She'd  flown  every 
where."  As  she  spoke  Miss  Toner  appeared  upon 
the  doorstep. 

Although  it  was  Sunday  she  had  not  varied  her 
dress,  which  was  still  the  simple  dress  of  dim,  dark 
blue;  but  over  it  she  wore  a  silk  jacket,  and  a  straw 
hat  trimmed  with  a  lighter  shade  of  blue  was  tied,  in 
summer-like  fashion,  beneath  her  chin.  She  carried 
a  sunshade  and  a  small  basket  filled  with  letters. 

Mrs.  Chadwick,  both  hands  outstretched,  went  to 
meet  her.  Oldmeadow  had  never  before  seen  her  kiss 
an  acquaintance  of  two  days'  standing.  "I  do  hope 
you  slept  well,  my  dear,"  she  said. 

"Very  well,"  said  Miss  Toner,  including  Old- 
meadow  in  her  smile.  "Except  for  a  little  while 
when  I  woke  up  and  lay  awake  and  couldn't  get  the 


ADRIENNE  TONER  45 

cawing  of  your  rooks  out  of  my  mind.  I  seemed  to 
hear  them  going  on  and  on." 

"Oh,  dear!  How  unfortunate!  But  surely  they 
weren't  cawing  in  the  night!"  cried  Mrs.  Chadwick, 
and  Miss  Toner,  laughing  and  holding  her  still  by 
the  hands,  turned  to  tell  Barney,  who  closely  fol 
lowed  her,  that  his  mother  was  really  afraid,  because 
she  had  thought  of  rooks  in  the  night,  that  their 
Coldbrooks  birds  had  actually  been  inhospitable 
enough  to  keep  her  awake  with  their  cawings.  Meg 
and  Barbara  and  Nancy  had  all  now  emerged  and 
there  was  much  laughter  and  explanation. 

"You  see,  Mummy  thinks  you  might  work  mira 
cles —  even  among  the  rooks,"  said  Barney,  while 
Oldmeadow  testily  meditated  on  his  own  discomfort. 
It  might  have  been  mere  coincidence,  or  it  might  — 
he  must  admit  it — have  been  Miss  Toner's  thoughts 
travelling  into  his  dream  or  his  dream  troubling  her 
thoughts ;  of  the  two  last  alternatives  he  didn't  know 
which  he  disliked  the  more. 

"  It's  time  to  get  ready  for  church,  children,"  said 
Mrs.  Chadwick,  when,  after  much  merriment  at  her 
expense,  the  rooks  and  their  occult  misdemeanours 
were  disposed  of.  "Where  is  Palgrave?  I  do  hope  he 
won't  miss  again.  It  does  so  hurt  dear  Mr.  Bodman's 
feelings.  Are  you  coming  with  us,  my  dear?"  she 
asked  Miss  Toner. 

Miss  Toner,  smiling  upon  them  all,  her  sunshade 
open  on  her  shoulder,  said  that  if  they  did  not  mind 
she  did  not  think  she  would  come.  "I  only  go  to 
church  when  friends  get  married  or  their  babies 
christened,"  she  said,  "or  something  of  that  sort.  I 
was  never  brought  up  to  it,  you  see.  Mother  never 
went." 


46  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Mrs.  Chadwick's  March  Hare  eyes  dwelt  on  her. 
"You  aren't  a  Church  woman?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  said  Miss  Toner,  and  the  very 
suggestion  seemed  to  amuse  her. 

Mrs.  Chadwick  hesitated:  "A  Dissenter?"  she 
ventured.  "There  are  so  many  sects  in  America 
I've  heard.  Though  I  met  a  very  charming  Ameri 
can  bishop  once." 

"No  —  not  a  Dissenter;  if  you  mean  by  that  a 
Presbyterian  or  a  Methodist  or  a  Swedenborgian," 
said  Miss  Toner,  shaking  her  head. 

Palgrave  had  now  joined  them  and  stood  on  the 
step  above  her.  She  smiled  round  and  up  at  him. 

Mrs.  Chadwick,  her  distress  alleviated  yet  her 
perplexity  deepened,  ventured  further:  "You  are  a 
Christian,  I  hope,  dear?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Toner  gravely  now  and 
very  kindly.  "Not  in  any  orthodox  way,  I  mean. 
Not  in  any  way  that  an  American  bishop  or  your 
Mr.  Bodman  would  acknowledge.  I  recognize  Christ 
as  a  great  teacher,  as  a  great  human  soul ;  one  of  the 
very  greatest;  gone  on  before.  But  I  don't  divide 
the  human  from  the  divine  in  the  way  the  churches 
do;  creeds  mean  nothing  to  me,  and  I'd  rather  say 
my  prayers  out  of  doors  on  a  day  like  this,  in  the 
sunlight,  than  in  any  church.  I  feel  nearer  God  alone 
in  His  great  world,  than  in  any  church  built  with 
human  hands.  But  we  must  all  follow  our  own 
light."  She  spoke  in  her  flat,  soft  voice,  gravely  but 
very  simply;  and  she  looked  affectionately  at  her 
hostess  as  she  added:  "You  wouldn't  want  me  to 
come  with  you  from  mere  conformity." 

Poor  Mrs.  Chadwick,  standing,  her  brood  about 
her,  in  the  sweet  Sabbath  sunlight,  had  to  Old- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  47 

meadow's  eye  an  almost  comically  arrested  air. 
How  was  a  creedless,  churchless  mistress  of  Cold- 
brooks  to  be  fitted  in  to  her  happy  vision  of  Barney's 
future?  What  would  the  village  say  to  a  squiress 
who  never  went  to  church  and  who  said  her  prayers 
in  the  sunlight  alone?  "  But,  of  course,  better  alone," 
he  seemed  to  hear  her  cogitate,  "than  that  anyone 
should  see  her  doing  such  a  very  curious  thing." 
And  aloud  she  did  murmur:  "Of  course  not;  of 
course  not,  dear.  And  if  you  go  into  the  little  arbour 
down  by  the  lake  no  one  will  disturb  you,  I'm  sure. 
Must  it  be  quite  in  the  open?  Mere  conformity  is 
such  a  shallow  thing.  But  all  the  same  I  should  like 
the  rector  to  come  and  talk  things  over  with  you. 
He's  such  a  good  man  and  very,  very  broad-minded. 
He  brings  science  so  often  into  his  sermons  —  some 
times  I  think  the  people  don't  quite  follow  it  all;  and 
only  the  other  day  he  said  to  me,  about  modern 
unrest  and  scepticism: 

'There  is  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds.' 

Mamma  met  Lord  Tennyson  once  and  felt  him  to  be 
a  deeply  religious  man  —  though  rather  ill-tempered; 
he  was  really  very  rude  to  her,  I  always  thought,  and 
I  do  so  dislike  rudeness.  —  And  travelling  about  so 
much,  dear,  you  probably  had  so  little  teaching." 

Miss  Toner's  eyes  were  incapable  of  irony  and 
they  only  deepened  now  in  benevolence  as  they 
rested  on  her  hostess.  "  But  I  haven't  any  doubts," 
she  said,  shaking  her  head  and  smiling:  "No  doubts 
at  all.  You  reach  the  truth  through  your  church  and 
I  reach  it  through  nature  and  love  and  life.  And  the 
beautiful  thing  is  that  it's  the  same  truth,  really; 


48  ADRIENNE  TONER 

the  same  beautiful  truth  that  God  loves  us  all,  and 
that  we  are  all  the  children  of  God.  I  should  be  very 
pleased  to  meet  your  rector,  of  course,  because  I  like 
meeting  anyone  who  is  good  and  true.  But  I  was 
taught.  My  mother  taught  me  always.  And  she 
was  the  freest,  wisest  soul  I  have  ever  known." 

"I'll  stay  with  you,"  said  Palgrave  suddenly  from 
his  place  on  the  step  above  her.  His  eyes,  over  her 
shoulder,  had  met  Oldmeadow's  and  perhaps  what 
he  saw  in  the  old  friend's  face  determined  his  testi 
mony.  "Church  means  nothing  to  me,  either;  and 
less  than  nothing.  I'm  not  so  charitable  as  you  are, 
and  don't  think  all  roads  lead  to  truth.  Some  lead 
away,  I  think.  You  know  perfectly  well,  Mummy, 
that  the  dear  old  rector  is  a  regular  duffer  and  you 
slept  all  through  the  sermon  the  last  time  I  went; 
you  did,  really!  I  was  too  amused  to  sleep.  He  was 
trying  to  explain  original  sin  without  mentioning 
Adam  or  Eve  or  the  Garden  of  Eden.  It  was  most 
endearing !  Like  some  one  trying  to  avoid  the  eye  of 
an  old  acquaintance  whom  they'd  come  to  the  con 
clusion  they  really  must  cut!  I  do  so  like  the  idea  of 
Adam  and  Eve  becoming  unsuitable  acquaintances 
for  the  enlightened  clergy!" 

"There  is  no  sin,"  said  Miss  Toner.  Barney  was 
not  quite  comfortable;  Oldmeadow  saw  that.  He 
kicked  about  in  the  gravel,  a  little  flushed,  and  when, 
once  or  twice,  the  old  family  friend  met  his  eye,  it 
was  quickly  averted.  "God  is  Good ;  and  everything 
else  is  mortal  mind  • —  mistake  • —  illusion." 

"You  are  a  sound  Platonist,  Miss  Toner,"  Old- 
meadow  observed,  and  his  kindness  hardly  cloaked 
his  irony. 

"Am  I?"  she  said.   When  she  looked  at  one  she 


ADRIENNE  TONER  49 

never  averted  her  eyes.  She  looked  iintil  she  had 
seen  all  that  she  wished  to  see.  "I  am  not  fond  of 
metaphysics." 

"Socrates  defined  sin  as  ignorance,  you  know,  and 
in  a  sense  it  may  be.  All  the  same,"  said  Oldmeadow, 
and  he  felt  that  they  were  all  listening  and  that  in 
the  eyes  of  his  old  friends  it  was  more  than  unlikely 
that  he  would  get  the  better  of  Miss  Toner  — 
"there's  mortal  mind  to  be  accounted  for,  isn't 
there,  and  why  it  gets  us  continually  into  such  a 
mess.  Whatever  name  you  call  it  by,  there  is  some 
thing  that  does  get  us  into  a  mess  and  mightn't  it  be 
a  wholesome  discipline  to  hear  it  denounced  once  a 
week?" 

"Not  by  some  one  more  ignorant  than  I  am ! "  said 
Miss  Toner,  laughing  gently.  "I'll  go  to  church  for 
love  of  Mrs.  Chad  wick,  but  not  for  the  sake  of  the 
discipline!" 

"Mr.  Bodman  never  denounces.  Roger  is  giving 
you  quite  a  wrong  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Chad  wick.  She 
had  stood  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  distressed 
and  bewildered,  and  she  now  prepared  to  leave  them. 
"And  Palgrave  is  very,  very  unjust.  Of  course  you 
must  not  come,  dear.  It  would  make  me  quite  un 
happy.  But  Mr.  Bodman  is  not  a  duffer.  If  Pal- 
grave  feels  like  that  he  must  certainly  stay  away. 
Perhaps  you  can  teach  him  to  be  more  charitable. 
It's  easy  to  see  the  mote  in  our  neighbour's  eye." 
Mrs.  Chadwick's  voice  slightly  trembled.  She  had 
been  much  moved  by  her  son's  defection. 

"Come,  Mummy,  you're  not  going  to  say  I'm  a 
duffer! "  Palgrave  passed  an  affectionately  bantering 
arm  round  her  shoulders.  "Dufferism  isn't  my 
beam!" 


50  ADRIENNE  TONER 

But  very  sadly  Mrs.  Chadwick  drew  away,  saying 
as  she  turned  into  the  house:  "No;  that  isn't  your 
beam.  But  pride  may  be,  Palgrave.  Spiritual 
pride." 

Oldmeadow  remained  standing  in  the  sunlight 
with  Miss  Toner  and  the  two  young  men.  The  girls 
had  followed  Mrs.  Chadwick,  Meg  casting  a  laugh 
ing  glance  of  appreciation  at  him  as  she  went.  Re 
ligious  scruples  would  never  keep  Meg  from  church 
if  she  had  a  pretty  spring  dress  to  wear. 

"After  all,"  he  carried  on,  mildly,  the  altercation 
—  if  that  was  what  it  was  between  him  and  Miss 
Toner  —  "good  Platonists  as  we  may  be,  we  haven't 
reached  the  stage  of  Divine  Contemplation  yet  and 
things  do  happen  that  are  difficult  to  account  for,  if 
sin  is  nothing  more  positive  than  illusion  and  mis 
take.  All  the  forms  of  ote-toi  que  je  m'y  mette.  All 
the  forms  of  jealousy  and  malice.  Deliberate  cruel 
ties.  History  is  full  of  horrors,  isn't  it?  There's  a 
jealousy  of  goodness  in  the  human  heart,  as  well  as 
a  love.  The  betrayal  of  Christ  by  Judas  is  symbolic." 

He  had  screwed  his  eyeglass  into  his  eye  the  better 
to  see  Miss  Toner  and  looked  very  much  like  a  solici 
tor  trying  to  coax  dry  facts  out  of  a  romantic  client. 
And  in  the  transparent  shadow  of  her  hat  Miss 
Toner,  with  her  incomparable  composure,  gave  him 
all  her  attention. 

"I  don't  account.  I  don't  account  for  anything. 
Do  you?  "  she  said.  "  I  only  feel  and  know.  But  even 
the  dreadful  things,  the  things  that  seem  to  us  so 
dreadful  • —  isn't  it  always  ignorance?  Ignorance  of 
what  is  really  good  and  happy  —  and  the  illusion  of 
a  separate  self?  When  we  are  all,  really,  one.  All, 
really,  together."  She  held  out  her  arms,  her  little 


ADRIENNE  TONER  51 

basket  hanging  from  her  wrist.  "And  if  we  feel  that 
at  last,  and  know  it,  those  dreadful  things  can't  hap 
pen  any  more." 

"Your  'if  is  the  standing  problem  of  metaphys 
ics  and  ethics.  Why  don't  we  feel  and  know -it? 
That's  the  question?  And  since  we  most  of  us,  for 
most  of  the  time,  don't  feel  and  know  it,  don't  we 
keep  closer  to  the  truth  if  we  accept  the  traditional 
phraseology  and  admit  that  there's  something  in  the 
texture  of  life,  something  in  ourselves,  that  tempts 
us,  or  impedes  us,  or  crushes  us,  and  call  it  sin  — 
evil?" 

He  was  looking  at  her,  still  with  his  latent  irony 
though  kindly  enough  indeed,  and  he  had,  as  he 
looked,  an  intuition  about  her.  She  had  never  been 
tempted,  she  had  never  been  impeded,  she  had  never 
been  crushed.  That  was  her  power.  She  was,  in  a 
fashion,  sinless.  It  was  as  if  she  had  been  hypno 
tized  in  infancy  to  be  good.  And  while  the  fact  made 
her  in  one  sense  so  savourless,  it  made  her  in  another 
so  significant.  She  would  go  much  further  than  most 
people  in  any  direction  she  wanted  to  go  simply 
because  she  was  not  aware  of  obstacles  and  had  no 
inhibitions. 

"Call  it  what  you  like,"  said  Miss  Toner.  She 
still  smiled  —  but  more  gravely.  Barney  had  ceased 
to  stroll  and  kick.  He  had  come  to  a  standstill  beside 
them,  and,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
his  beloved,  showed  himself  as  completely  reassured. 
Palgrave  still  stood  on  the  step  above  her  and 
seemed  to  watch  the  snowy,  piled-up  clouds  that 
adorned  the  tranquil  sky.  "I  feel  it  a  mistake  to 
make  unreal  things  seem  real  by  giving  them  big 
names.  We  become  afraid  of  them  and  fear  is  what 


52  ADRIENNE  TONER 

impedes  us  most  of  all  in  life.  For  so  many  genera 
tions  humanity  has  seen  ghosts  in  the  evening  mists 
and  taken  its  indigestion  for  the  promptings  of  a 
demon.  We've  got  away  from  all  that  now,  Mr. 
Old  meadow.  We  see  that  mists  are  mists  and  indi 
gestion  indigestion,  and  that  there  aren't  such 
things  as  ghosts  and  demons.  We've  come  out,  all 
together,  hand  in  hand,  on  the  Open  Road  and  we 
don't  want,  ever  any  more,  to  be  reminded,  even,  of 
the  Dark  Ages." 

Before  her  fluency,  Oldmeadow  felt  himself  grow 
less  kindly.  "You  grant  there  have  been  dark  ages, 
then?  I  count  that  a  concession.  Things  may  not 
be  evil  now,  but  they  were  once." 

"Not  a  concession  at  all,"  said  Miss  Toner. 
"Only  an  explanation  of  what  has  happened  —  an 
explanation  of  what  you  call  the  mess,  Mr.  Old- 
meadow." 

"So  that  when  we  find  ourselves  misbehaving  to 
one  another  as  we  march  along  the  Open  Road,  we 
may  know  it's  only  indigestion  and  take  a  pill." 

She  didn't  like  badinage.  That,  at  all  events,  was 
evident  to  him,  even  in  her  imperturbability.  She 
took  it  calmly  —  not  lightly ;  and  if  she  was  not 
already  beginning  to  dislike  him,  it  was  because  dis 
liking  people  was  a  reality  she  didn't  recognize. 
"We  don't  misbehave  if  we  are  on  the  Open  Road," 
she  said. 

"Oh,  but  you're  falling  back  now  on  good  old- 
fashioned  theology,"  Oldmeadow  retorted.  "The 
sheep,  saved  and  well-behaved,  keeping  to  the  road, 
and  the  goats  —  all  those  who  misbehave  and  stray 
—  classed  with  the  evening  mists." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Toner  eyeing  him,  "I  don't  class 


ADRIENNE  TONER  53 

them  with  the  evening  mists;  I  class  them  with  the 
sick,  whom  we  must  be  kind  to  and  take  care  of." 

Mrs.  Chadwick  was  now  emerging  in  her  new 
spring  hat,  which  was  not  very  successful  and  gave 
emphasis  to  her  general  air  of  strain.  Meg's  hat  was 
very  successful,  as  Meg's  hats  always  were;  and  if 
Nancy's  did  not  shine  beside  it,  it  was,  at  all  events, 
exceedingly  becoming  to  her.  Nancy's  eyes  went  to 
Barney.  Barney,  in  the  past,  had  been  very  appre 
ciative  of  becoming  hats.  But  he  had  no  eyes  for 
Nancy  now.  He  had  drawn  Miss  Toner  aside  and 
Oldmeadow  heard  their  colloquy: 

"Would  you  rather  I  didn't  go?" 

"I'd  rather,  always,  you  followed  your  light,  dear 
friend." 

"I  do  like  going  here,  you  know. f  It  seems  to  be 
long  with  it  all  —  and  Mummy  can't  bear  our  not 
going." 

"  It  makes  your  dear  mother  happy.  It  all  means 
love  to  you." 

"Not  only  that"  —  Oldmeadow  imagined  that 
Barney  blushed,  and  he  heard  his  stammer:  "  I  don't 
know  what  I  believe  about  everything ;  but  the  serv 
ice  goes  much  deeper  than  anything  I  could  think 
for  myself."  Their  voices  dropped.  All  that  came 
further  to  Oldmeadow  was  from  Miss  Toner:  "It 
makes  you  nearer  than  if  you  stayed." 

"Confound  her  ineff ability !"  he  thought.  "It 
rests  with  her,  then,  whether  he  should  go  or  stay." 

It  certainly  did.  Barney  moved  away  with  them 
all,  leaving  Palgrave  to  the  more  evident  form  of 
proximity. 

"You  know,"  Mrs.  Chadwick  murmured  to  Old- 
meadow  as  they  went,  between  the  primroses,  down 


£4  ADRIENNE  TONER 

the  little  path  and  through  a  wicket-gate  that  led  to 
the  village  —  "you  know,  Roger,  it's  quite  possible 
that  they  may  say  their  prayers  together.  It's  like 
Quakers,  isn't  it  —  or  Moravians;  or  whoever  those 
curious  people  are  who  are  buried  standing  up  —  so 
dismal  and  uncomfortable,  I  always  think.  But  it's 
better  that  Palgrave  should  say  his  prayers  with 
some  one,  and  somewhere,  isn't  it,  than  that  he 
shouldn't  say  them  at  all?" 


CHAPTER  VI 

"MOTHER'S  got  the  most  poisonous  headache,"  said 
Meg.  "  I  don't  think  she'll  be  able  to  come  down  to 
tea." 

She  had  joined  Oldmeadow  on  the  rickety  old 
bench  where  he  sat  reading  and  smoking  in  a  sunny 
corner  of  the  garden.  A  band  of  golden  wallflowers 
behind  them  exhaled  the  deep  fragrance  that  he 
always  associated  with  spring  and  Sunday  and  Cold- 
brooks,  and  the  old  stone  wall  behind  the  flowers 
exhaled  a  warmth  that  was  like  a  fragrance. 

"Adrienne  is  with  her,"  Meg  added.  She  had 
seated  herself  and  put  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and 
her  chin  in  her  hands  as  though  she  intended  a  solid 
talk. 

"Will  that  be  likely  to  help  her  head?"  Old- 
meadow  inquired.  "I  should  say  not,  if  she's  going 
to  continue  the  discourse  of  this  morning." 

"Did  you  think  all  that  rather  silly?"  Meg  in 
quired,  tapping  her  smart  toes  on  the  ground  and 
watching  them.  "You  looked  as  if  you  did.  But 
then  you  usually  do  look  as  though  you  thought 
most  things  and  people  silly.  I  didn't  —  I  mean,  not 
in  her.  I  quite  saw  what  you  did ;  at  least  I  think  so. 
But  she  can  say  things  that  would  be  silly  in  other 
people.  Now  Palgrave  is  silly.  There's  just  the 
difference.  Is  it  because  he  always  feels  he's  scoring 
off  somebody  and  she  doesn't?"  Meg  was  evidently 
capable,  for  all  her  devotion,  of  dispassionate  in 
quiry. 

"She's  certainly  more  secure  than  Palgrave,"  said 


56  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Oldmeadow.  "But  I  feel  that's  only  because  she's 
less  intelligent.  Palgrave  is  aware,  keenly,  of  a  crit 
ical  and  probably  hostile  world;  and  Miss  Toner  is 
unaware  of  everything  except  her  own  benevolence, 
and  the  need  for  it." 

Meg  meditated.  Then  she  laughed.  "You  are 
spiteful,  Roger.  Oh  —  I  don't  mean  about  Adrienne 
in  particular.  But  you  always  see  the  weak  spots  in 
people,  first  go.  It's  rather  jolly,  all  the  same,  if  you 
come  to  think  it  over,  to  be  like  that.  Perhaps  that's 
all  she  is  aware  of ;  but  it  takes  you  a  good  way  — 
wanting  to  help  people  and  seeing  how  they  can  be 
helped." 

"Yes;  it  does  take  you  a  good  way.  I  don't  deny 
that  Miss  Toner  will  go  far." 

"And  make  us  go  too  far,  perhaps?"  Meg  mused. 
"Well,  I'm  quite  ready  for  a  move.  I  think  we're  all 
rather  stodgy,  really,  down  here.  And  up  in  Lon 
don,  too,  if  it  comes  to  that.  I'm  rather  disappointed 
in  London,  you  know,  Roger,  and  what  it  does  for 
one.  Just  a  different  kind  of  sheep,  it  seems  to  me, 
from  the  kind  we  are  in  the  country ;  noisy  skipping 
sheep  instead  of  silent,  slow  ones.  But  they  all  fol 
low  each  other  about  in  just  the  same  way.  And 
what  one  likes  is  to  see  someone  who  isn't  following." 

"Yes;  that's  true,  certainly,"  Oldmeadow  con 
ceded.  "  Miss  Toner  isn't  a  sheep.  She's  the  sort  of 
person  who  sets  the  sheep  moving.  I'm  not  so  sure 
that  she  knows  where  she  is  going,  all  the  same." 

"You  mean  —  Be  careful;  don't  you?"  said  Meg, 
looking  up  at  him  sideways  with  her  handsome  eyes. 
"I'm  not  such  a  sheep  myself,  when  it  comes  to  that, 
you  know,  Roger.  I  look  before  I  leap  —  even  after 
Adrienne,"  she  laughed;  and  Oldmeadow,  looking 


ADRIENNE  TONER  57 

back  at  her,  laughed  too  —  pleased  with  her,  yet  a 
little  disconcerted  by  what  she  revealed  of  experi 
ence. 

"The  reason  I  like  her  so  awfully,"  Meg  went  on 
—  while  he  reflected  that,  after  all,  she  was  now 
twenty-five  —  "and  it's  a  good  thing  I  do,  isn't  it, 
since  it's  evident  she's  going  to  take  Barney;  but 
the  reason  is  that  she's  so  interested  in  one.  More 
than  anyone  I  ever  knew  —  far  and  far  away.  Of 
course  Mother's  interested ;  but  it's  for  one ;  about 
one;  not  in  one,  as  it  were.  And  then  darling  old 
Mummy  isn't  exactly  intelligent,  is  she;  or  only  in 
such  unexpected  spots  that  it's  never  much  good  to 
one;  one  can  never  count  on  it  beforehand.  Whereas 
Adrienne  is  so  interested  in  you  that  she  makes  you 
feel  more  interested  in  yourself  than  you  ever 
dreamed  you  could  feel.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean? 
Is  it  because  she's  American,  do  you  think?  English 
people  aren't  interested  in  themselves,  off  their  own 
bat,  perhaps;  or  in  other  people  either!  I  don't 
mean  we're  not  selfish  all  right!"  Meg  laughed. 

"Selfish  and  yet  impersonal,"  Oldmeadow  mused. 
"With  less  of  our  social  consciousness  in  use,  with 
more  of  it  locked  up  in  automatism,  possibly." 

"There's  nothing  locked  up  in  Adrienne;  abso 
lutely  nothing,"  Meg  declared.  "It's  all  there  — 
out  in  the  shop-window.  And  it's  a  big  window  too, 
even  though  some  of  the  hats  and  scarves,  so  to 
speak,  may  strike  us  as  funny.  But,  seriously,  what 
is  it  about  her,  do  you  think?  How  can  she  care  so 
much?  —  about  everybody?" 

He  remembered  Nancy's  diagnosis.  "Not  about 
everybody.  Only  about  people  she  can  do  some 
thing  for.  You'll  find  she  won't  care  about  me." 


58  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"Why  should  she?  You  don't  care  for  her.  Why 
should  she  waste  herself  on  people  who  don't  need 
her?"  Meg's  friendliness  of  glance  did  not  preclude 
a  certain  hardness. 

"Why  indeed?  It  could  never  occur  to  her,  of 
course,  that  she  might  need  somebody.  I  don't 
mean  that  spitefully.  She  is  strong.  She  doesn't 
need." 

"Exactly.  Like  you,"  said  Meg.  "She's  quite 
right  to  pay  no  attention  to  the  other  strong  people. 
For  of  course  you  are  very  strong,  Roger,  and  fright 
fully  clever;  and  good,  too.  Only  one  has  to  be 
cleverer,  no  doubt,  than  we  are  to  see  your  goodness 
as  easily  as  Adrienne's.  It's  the  shop-window  again. 
She  shows  her  goodness  all  the  time ;  and  you  don't."' 

Oldmeadow  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and 
felt  for  his  tobacco-pouch.  "  I  show  my  spite.  No; 
you  mustn't  count  me  among  the  good.  I  suppose 
your  mother's  headache  came  on  this  morning  after 
she  found  out  that  Miss  Toner  doesn't  go  to  church." 

"Of  course  it  was  that.  You  saw  that  she  was 
thinking  about  it  all  through  the  service,  didn't 
you?"  said  Meg.  "And  once,  poor  lamb,  she  said, 
'  Have  mercy  upon  us,  miserable  sinners '  instead  of 
Amen.  Did  you  notice?  It  will  bother  her  fright 
fully,  of  course.  But  after  all  it's  not  so  bad  as  if 
Adrienne  were  a  Dissenter  and  wanted  to  go  to 
chapel!  Mummy  in  her  heart  of  hearts  would  much 
rather  you  were  a  pagan  than  a  Dissenter.  I  don't 
think  it  will  make  a  bit  of  difference  really.  So  long 
as  she  gives  money  to  the  church,  and  is  nice  to  the 
village  people.  Mother  will  get  over  it,"  said  Meg. 

He  thought  so  too.  His  own  jocose  phrase  re 
turned  to  him.  As  long  as  the  money  was  there  it 


ADRIENNE  TONER  59 

didn't  make  any  difference.  But  Meg's  security  on 
that  score  interested  him.  With  all  her  devotion  to 
the  new  friend  she  struck  him,  fundamentally,  as 
less  kind  than  Nancy,  who  had  none.  But  that,  no 
doubt,  was  because  Meg,  fundamentally,  was  hard 
and  Nancy  loving.  It  was  because  of  Miss  Toner's 
interest  in  herself  that  Meg  was  devoted.  "You're 
so  sure,  then,  that  she's  going  to  take  Barney?"  he 
asked. 

"Quite  sure,"  said  Meg.  "Surer  than  he  is.  Surer 
than  she  is.  She's  in  love  with  him  all  right;  more 
than  she  knows  herself,  poor  dear.  No  doubt  she 
thinks  she's  making  up  her  mind  and  choosing. 
Weighing  Barney  in  the  balance  and  counting  up  his 
virtues.  But  it's  all  decided  already ;  and  not  by  his 
virtues;  it  never  is,"  said  Meg,  again  with  her  air  of 
unexpected  experience.  "  It's  something  much  more 
important  than  virtues;  it's  the  thickness  of  his  eye 
lashes  and  the  way  his  teeth  show  when  he  smiles, 
and  all  his  pretty  ways  and  habits.  Things  like  that. 
She  loves  looking  at  him  and  more  than  that,  even, 
she  loves  having  him  look  at  her.  I  have  an  idea 
that  she's  not  had  people  very  much  in  love  with  her 
before;  not  people  with  eyelashes  and  teeth  like 
Barney.  In  spite  of  all  her  money.  And  she's  get 
ting  on,  too.  She's  as  old  as  Barney,  you  know.  It's 
the  one,  real  romance  that's  ever  come  to  her,  poor 
dear.  Funny  you  don't  see  it.  Men  don't  see  that 
sort  of  thing  I  suppose.  But  she  couldn't  give  Barney 
up  now,  simply.  It's  because  of  that,  you  know"  — 
Meg  glanced  behind  them  and  lowered  her  voice  — 
"that  she  doesn't  like  Nancy." 

"Doesn't  like  Nancy!"  Oldmeadow's  instant  in 
dignation  was  in  his  voice.  "What  has  Nancy  to  do 
with  it?" 


60  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"She  might  have  had  a  great  deal,  poor  darling 
little  Nancy;  and  it's  that  Adrienne  feels.  She  felt  it 
at  once.  I  saw  she  did;  that  Nancy  and  Barney  had 
been  very  near  each  other;  that  there  was  an  affinity, 
a  sympathy,  call  it  what  you  like,  that  would  have 
led  to  something  more.  It  wouldn't  have  done  at  all, 
of  course;  at  least  I  suppose  not.  They  knew  each 
other  too  well;  and,  until  the  last  year  or  two,  she's 
been  too  young  for  him.  And  then,  above  all,  she's 
hardly  any  money.  But  all  the  same,  if  he  hadn't 
come  across  Adrienne  and  been  bowled  over  like 
this,  Barney  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  Nancy. 
She's  getting  to  be  so  lovely  looking,  for  one  thing, 
isn't  she?  And  Barney's  so  susceptible  to  looks.  He 
was  falling  in  love  with  her  last  winter  and  she  l:new 
it  as  well  as  I  did.  It's  rather  rotten  luck  for  Nancy 
because  I'm  afraid  she  cares;  but  then  women  do 
have  rotten  luck  about  love  affairs,"  said  Meg,  now 
sombrely.  "The  dice  are  loaded  against  them  every 
time." 

Oldmeadow  sat  smoking  in  silence  for  some  mo 
ments,  making  no  effort  to  master  his  strong  resent 
ment;  taking,  rather,  full  possession  of  its  implica 
tions.  "Somewhat  of  a  flaw  in  your  angel  you  must 
admit,"  he  said  presently.  "She  doesn't  like  people 
who  are  as  strong  as  she  is  and  she  doesn't  like  peo 
ple  who  might  have  been  loved  instead  of  herself. 
It  narrows  the  scale  of  her  benevolence,  you  know. 
It  makes  her  look  perilously  like  a  jealous  prig,  and 
a  prig  without  any  excuse  for  jealousy  into  the 
bargain." 

"Temper,  Roger,"  Meg  observed,  casting  her 
hard,  friendly  glance  round  at  him;  "I  know  you 
think  there's  no  one  quite  to  match  Nancy;  and  I 


ADRIENNE  TONER  61 

think  you're  not  far  wrong.  She's  the  straightest, 
sweetest-tempered  girl  who  ever  stepped  on  two 
feet.  But  all  the  same  Adrienne  isn't  a  prig,  and  if 
she's  jealous  she  can't  help  herself.  She  wants  to 
love  Nancy;  she  thinks  she  does  love  her;  she'll 
always  be  heavenly  to  her.  She  can  do  a  lot  for 
Nancy,  you  know.  She  will  do  a  lot  for  her,  even  if 
Nancy  holds  her  off.  But  she  wishes  frightfully  that 
she  was  old  and  ugly.  She  wishes  that  Barney 
weren't  so  fond  of  her  without  thinking  about  her. 
She's  jealous  and  she  can't  help  herself  —  like  all 
the  rest  of  us!"  Meg  laughed  grimly.  "When  it 
comes  to  that  we're  none  of  us  angels." 

It  was  tea-time  and  the  dear  old  gong  sounded 
balmily  from  the  house.  As  they  went  along  the 
path  the  rooks  again  were  cawing  overhead  and 
dimly,  like  the  hint  of  evening  in  the  air,  he  remem 
bered  his  dream  and  the  sense  of  menace.  "You 
know,  it's  not  like  all  the  rest  of  you,"  he  said.  "  It's 
not  like  Nancy,  for  instance.  Nancy  wouldn't  dis 
like  a  person  because  she  was  jealous  of  them.  In 
fact  I  don't  believe  Nancy  could  be  jealous.  She'd 
only  be  hurt." 

"It's  rather  a  question  of  degree,  that,  isn't  it?" 
said  Meg.  "In  one  form  of  it  you're  poisoned  and 
in  the  other  you're  cut  with  a  knife;  and  the  latter  is 
the  prettier  way  of  suffering;  doesn't  make  you  come 
out  in  a  rash  and  feel  sick.  Nancy  is  cut  with  the 
knife;  and  if  she's  not  jealous  in  the  ugly  sense,  she 
dislikes  Adrienne  all  right." 

"Why  should  she  like  her?"  Oldmeadow  retorted, 
and  Meg's  simile  seemed  to  cut  into  him,  too.  "She 
doesn't  need  her  money  or  her  interest  or  her  love. 
She  doesn't  dislike  her.  She  merely  wishes  she  were 
somewhere  else  —  as  I  do." 


62  ADRIENNE  TONER 

The  garden  path  led  straight  into  the  house.  One 
entered  a  sort  of  lobby,  where  coats  and  hats  and 
rackets  and  gardening  baskets  were  kept,  and  from 
the  lobby  went  into  the  hall.  Tea  was,  as  always, 
laid  there  and  Mrs.  Chadwick,  as  Meg  and  Old- 
meadow  came  in,  was  descending  the  staircase  at 
the  further  end,  leaning  on  Adrienne  Toner's  arm. 

"You  see.  She's  done  it!"  Meg  murmured.  She 
seemed  to  bear  him  no  ill-will  for  his  expressed  aver 
sion.  "I  never  knew  one  of  Mother's  headaches  go 
so  quickly." 

"I  expect  she'd  rather  have  stayed  quietly  up 
stairs,"  said  Oldmeadow;  "she  looks  puzzled.  As  if 
she  didn't  know  what  had  happened  to  her." 

"  Like  a  rabbit  when  it  conies  out  of  the  conjuror's 
hat,"  said  the  irreverent  daughter. 

That  was  precisely  what  poor  Eleanor  Chadwick 
did  look  like  and  for  the  moment  his  mind  was  di 
verted  by  amusement  at  her  appearance  from  its 
bitter  preoccupation.  Mrs.  Chadwick  was  the  rabbit 
and  Miss  Toner  was  the  conjuror  indeed;  bland 
and  secure  and  holding  her  trophy  in  a  firm  but 
gentle  grasp.  Not  until  they  were  all  seated  did 
Barney  and  Nancy  appear  and  then  it  was  evident 
to  him  that  if  Miss  Toner  were  jealous  of  Nancy  she 
did  not  fear  her,  for  it  was  she  who  had  arranged  the 
walk  from  which  the  young  couple  had  just  returned. 

"Was  it  lovely?"  she  asked  Barney,  as  he  took 
the  place  beside  her.  "Oh,  I  do  wish  I  could  have 
come;  but  I  knew  your  Mother  needed  me." 

"The  primroses  are  simply  ripping  in  the  wood," 
said  Barney. 

Nancy  carried  a  large  bunch  of  primroses. 

"Ripping,"   said   Miss  Toner,   laughing  gently. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  63 

"How  absurd  of  you,  Barney.  Could  anything  be 
less  ripping  than  primroses?  How  beautiful  they  are 
and  what  a  lovely  bunch.  One  sees  that  Miss  Averil 
loves  them  from  the  way  she  has  picked  them."  If 
she  did  not  call  Nancy  by  her  Christian  name  it  was, 
Oldmeadow  knew,  not  her  but  Nancy's  fault. 

Nancy  still  stood  beside  the  table  and  from  the 
fact  of  standing,  while  all  the  rest  of  them  were 
seated,  from  the  fact  of  being  called  Miss  Averil, 
she  seemed,  for  the  moment,  oddly  an  outsider;  as  if 
she  hardly  belonged  to  the  circle  of  which  Miss 
Toner  was  the  centre.  "Do  come  and  sit  near  us," 
said  Miss  Toner.  "For  I  had  to  miss  you,  too,  you 
see,  as  well  as  the  primroses." 

"I'd  crowd  you  there,"  said  Nancy,  smiling.  "I'll 
sit  here  near  Aunt  Eleanor."  From  something  in 
her  eyes  Oldmeadow  felt  suddenly  sure  that  not  till 
now  had  she  realized  that  it  had  not,  really,  been  her 
and  Barney's  walk.  She  offered  the  primroses  to 
Mrs.  Chadwick  as  she  took  the  chair  beside  her, 
saying,  "They'll  fill  your  white  bowl  in  the  morning- 
room,  Aunt  Eleanor." 

"Oh,  I  say;  but  I  meant  those  for  Adrienne, 
Nancy!"  Barney  exclaimed,  and  as  he  did  so  Meg's 
eyes  met  Oldmeadow's  over  the  household  loaf. 
"She  didn't  see  them  in  the  wood,  so  she  ought  to 
have  them.  Mummy  is  suffocated  with  primroses 
already." 

But  Nancy  showed  no  rash  and  only  an  acute 
Meg  could  have  guessed  a  cut  as  she  answered:  "I'll 
pick  another  bunch  to-morrow  for  Miss  Toner, 
Barney.  They'll  be  fresher  to  take  to  London. 
These  are  really  Aunt  Eleanor's.  I  always  fill  that 
bowl  for  her." 


CHAPTER  VII 

"I  DO  so  want  a  talk  with  you,  Roger,"  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick  murmured  to  him  when  tea  was  over.  The 
dining-room  opened  at  one  end  of  the  hall  and  the 
drawing-room  at  the  other  and  the  morning-room, 
Mrs.  Chadwick's  special  retreat,  into  which  she  now 
drew  him,  was  tucked  in  behind  the  dining-room  and 
looked  out  at  an  angle  of  the  garden  wall  and  at  the 
dove-cot  that  stood  there.  Mrs.  Chadwick's  doves 
were  usually  fluttering  about  the  window  and  even, 
when  it  was  open,  entering  the  room,  where  she  some 
times  fondly  fed  them,  causing  thereby  much  dis 
tress  of  mind  to  Turner,  the  good  old  parlourmaid. 
A  pleasant  little  fire  was  burning  there  and,  after 
placing  her  primroses  in  the  white  bowl,  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick  drew  her  chair  to  it,  casting  a  glance,  as  she  did 
so,  up  at  the  large  portrait  of  her  husband  in  hunt 
ing  dress  that  hung  above  the  mantelpiece.  It  was 
painted  with  the  same  glib  unintelligence  as  the 
dining-room  portraits,  but  the  painter  had  been 
unable  to  miss  entirely  the  whimsical  daring  of  the 
eyes  or  to  bring  into  conformity  with  his  own  stand 
ard  of  good  looks  the  charm  of  the  irregular  and  nar 
row  face.  Francis  Chadwick  had  been  an  impulsive, 
idle,  endearing  man,  and,  remaining  always  in  love 
with  his  wife,  had  fondly  cherished  all  her  absurdities. 
Since  his  death  poor  Mrs.  Chadwick  had  been  per 
plexed  by  her  effort  to  associate  with  gravity  and  in 
spiration  one  who  had  always  been  a  laughing  incen 
tive  to  inconsequence.  Oldmeadow  reflected,  as  he, 
too,  looked  up  at  him,  that  Francis  Chadwick  would 
neither  have  needed  nor  have  liked  Miss  Toner. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  65 

"It's  so  very,  very  strange,  Roger,  I  really  must 
tell  you,"  Mrs.  Chadwick  said.  Her  hair,  still  bright 
and  abundant,  was  very  untidy.  She  had  evidently 
not  brushed  it  since  rising  from  her  sofa.  "I  had  one 
of  my  dreadful  headaches,  you  know.  It  came  on  at 
church  this  morning  and  I  really  couldn't  attend  to 
Mr.  Bodman  at  all.  Perhaps  you  saw." 

"I  heard.  Yes.  Miss  Toner  had  disturbed  you  a 
good  deal." 

"I  did  feel  so  bewildered  and  unhappy  about  it 
all,"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick,  fixing  her  blue  eyes  upon 
the  family  friend.  Eleanor  Chad  wick's  eyes  could 
show  the  uncanny  ingenuousness  and  the  uncanny 
wisdom  of  a  baby's.  "Nothing  so  innocent  or  so 
sharp  was  ever  seen  outside  a  perambulator,"  her 
husband  had  once  said  of  them.  "About  her,  you 
know,  Roger,"  she  continued,  "and  Barney  and 
Palgrave.  The  influence.  I  could  not  bear  them  to 
lose  their  faith  in  the  church  of  their  fathers." 

"No,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "But  you  must  be  pre 
pared  to  see  it  shift  a  good  deal.  Faiths  have  to  shift 
nowadays  if  they're  to  stand." 

"Well.  Yes.  I  know  what  you  mean,  Roger.  But 
it  isn't  a  question  of  shifting,  is  it?  I'm  very  broad. 
I've  always  been  all  for  breadth.  And  the  broader 
you  are  the  firmer  you  ought  to  be,  oughtn't  you?" 

"Well,  Miss  Toner's  broad  and  firm,"  Oldmeadow 
suggested.  "I  never  saw  anyone  more  so." 

"But  in  such  a  queer  way,  Roger.  Like  saying 
one's  prayers  out  of  doors  and  thinking  oneself  as 
good  as  Christ.  Oh,  it  all  made  me  perfectly  wretched 
and  after  lunch  my  head  was  so  bad  that  I  went  and 
lay  down  in  the  dark ;  and  it  raged,  simply.  Oh,  dear, 
I  thought;  this  means  a  day  and  night  of  misery. 


66  ADRIENNE  TONER 

They  go  on  like  that  once  they  begin.  Mamma  used 
to  have  them  in  precisely  the  same  way.  Absolutely 
incapacitating.  I  can  never  see  how  anybody  can 
deny  heredity.  That's  another  point,  Roger.  I've 
always  accepted  evolution.  I  gave  up  Adam  and 
Eve  long  ago;  gave  them  up  as  white  and  good- 
looking,  I  mean;  because  we  must  have  begun  some 
where,  mustn't  we?  And  Darwin  was  such  a  good 
man;  though  you  remember  he  came  not  to  care 
anything  at  all  about  music.  That  may  mean  a  great 
deal,  if  one  could  think  it  all  out;  it's  the  most  re 
ligious  of  the  arts,  isn't  it?  But  there's  no  end  to 
thinking  things  out!"  Mrs.  Chadwick  pressed  her 
hand  against  her  forehead,  closing  her  eyes  for  a 
moment.  "And  Adrienne  is  very  musical." 

"You  were  at  your  headache,"  Oldmeadow  re 
minded  her.  It  was  customary  in  the  family  circle 
thus  to  shepherd  Mrs.  Chadwick's  straying  thoughts. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  it  all  hangs  together.  Heredity 
and  Mamma  and  my  headaches;  and  Adrienne's 
mother,  who  was  musical,  too,  and  played  on  a  harp. 
Well,  it  was  raging  and  I  was  lying  there,  when  there 
came  a  little  rap  at  the  door.  I  knew  at  once  who  it 
was  and  she  asked  in  such  a  gentle  voice  if  she  might 
come  in.  It's  a  very  soothing  voice,  isn't  it?  But  do 
you  know  I  felt  for  a  moment  quite  frightened,  as  if 
I  simply  couldn't  see  her.  But  I  had  to  say  yes,  and 
she  came  in  so  softly  and  sat  down  beside  me  and 
said :  '  I  used  to  help  Mother,  sometimes,  with  her 
headaches.  May  I  help  you?'  She  didn't  want  to 
talk  about  things,  as  I'd  feared.  Such  a  relief  it  was. 
So  I  said : '  Oh,  do  my  dear,'  and  she  laid  her  hand  on 
my  forehead  and  said :  '  You  will  soon  feel  better.  It 
will  soon  quite  pass  away.'  And  then  not  another 


ADRIENNE  TONER  67 

word.  Only  sitting  there  in  the  dark,  with  her  hand 
on  my  forehead.  And  do  you  know,  Roger,  almost 
at  once  the  pain  began  to  melt  away.  You  know 
how  a  dish  of  junket  melts  after  you  cut  into  it.  It 
was  like  that.  'Junket,  junket,'  I  seemed  to  hear 
myself  saying;  and  such  a  feeling  of  peace  and  con 
tentment.  And  before  I  knew  anything  more  I  fell 
into  the  most  delicious  sleep  and  slept  till  now,  just 
before  tea.  She  was  sitting  there  still,  in  the  dark 
beside  me  and  I  said:  'Oh,  my  dear,  to  think  of  your 
having  stayed  in  on  this  lovely  afternoon!'  But  she 
went  to  pull  up  the  blinds  and  said  that  she  loved 
sitting  quietly  in  the  dark  with  some  one  she  cared 
for,  sleeping.  'I  think  souls  come  very  close  to 
gether,  then,'  she  said.  Wasn't  it  beautiful  of  her, 
Roger?  Like  astral  bodies,  you  know,  and  auras  and 
things  of  that  sort.  She  is  beautiful.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  that,  then.  She  gives  me  such  a  feeling  of 
trust.  How  can  one  help  it?  It's  like  what  one  reads 
of  Roman  Catholic  saints  and  people  in  the  Bible. 
The  gift  of  healing.  The  laying  on  of  hands.  We 
don't  seem  to  have  any  of  them  and  we  can't  count 
her,  since  she  doesn't  believe  in  the  church.  But  if 
only  they'd  give  up  the  Pope,  I  don't  see  why  we 
shouldn't  accept  their  saints;  such  dear,  good  people, 
most  of  them.  And  the  Pope  is  quite  an  excellent 
man  just  now,  I  believe.  But  isn't  it  very  strange, 
Roger?  For  a  person  who  can  do  that  to  one  can't  be 
irreligious,  can  they?" 

Mrs.  Chadwick's  eye  was  now  fixed  upon  him, 
less  wistfully  and  more  intently,  and  he  knew  that 
something  was  expected  of  him. 

"Hypnotic  doctors  can  do  it,  you  know.  You 
needn't  be  a  saint  to  do  it,"  he  said.  "Though  I 


68  ADRIENNE  TONER 

suppose  you  must  have  some  power  of  concentration 
that  implies  faith.  However,"  he  had  to  say  all  his 
thought,  though  most  of  it  would  be  wasted  upon 
poor  Eleanor  Chadwick,  "Miss  Toner  is  anything 
but  irreligious.  You  may  be  sure  of  that." 

"You  feel  it,  too,  Roger.   I'm  so,  so  glad." 

"But  her  religion  is  not  as  your  religion,"  he  had 
to  warn  her,  "nor  her  ways  your  ways.  You  must 
be  prepared  to  have  the  children  unsettled;  every 
one  of  them ;  because  she  has  great  power  and  is  far 
more  religious  than  most  people.  She  believes  in  her 
creed  and  acts  on  it.  You  must  give  the  children 
their  heads.  It's  no  good  trying  to  circumvent  or 
oppose  them." 

"  But  they  mustn't  do  wrong  things,  Roger.  How 
can  I  give  them  their  heads  if  it's  to  do  wrong  things? 
I  don't  know  what  Mamma  would  have  said  to  their 
not  going  to  church  —  especially  in  the  country. 
She  would  have  thought  it  very  wrong,  simply. 
Sinful  and  dangerous." 

"Hardly  that,"  Oldmeadow  smiled.  "Even  in 
the  country.  You  don't  think  Miss  Toner  does 
wrong  things.  If  they  take  up  Miss  Toner's  creed 
instead  of  going  to  church,  they  won't  come  to  much 
harm.  The  principal  thing  is  that  there  should  be 
something  to  take  up.  After  all,"  he  was  reassuring 
himself  as  well  as  Mrs.  Chadwick,  "it  hasn't  hurt 
her.  It's  made  her  a  little  foolish ;  but  it  hasn't  hurt 
her.  And  your  children  will  never  be  foolish.  They'll 
get  all  the  good  of  it  and,  perhaps,  be  able  to  combine 
it  with  going  to  church. 

"  Foolish,  Roger?"  Mrs.  Chadwick,  relieved  of  her 
headache,  but  not  of  her  perplexity,  gazed  wanly  at 
him.  "You  think  Adrienne  foolish?" 


ADRIENNE  TONER  69 

"A  little.  Now  and  then.  You  mustn't  accept 
anything  she  says  to  you  just  because  she  can  cure 
you  of  a  headache." 

"But  how  can  you  say  foolish,  Roger?  She's  had 
a  most  wonderful  education?" 

"Everything  that  makes  her  surer  of  herself  and 
makes  other  people  surer  of  her  puts  her  in  more 
danger  of  being  foolish.  One  can  be  too  sure  of  one 
self.  Unless  one  is  a  saint  —  and  even  then.  And 
though  I  don't  think  she's  irreligious  I  don't  think 
she's  a  saint.  Not  by  any  means." 

"I  don't  see  how  anyone  can  be  more  of  one, 
nowadays,  Roger.  She  heals  people  and  she  says 
prayers,  and  she  is  always  good  and  gentle  and  never 
thinks  of  herself.  I'm  sure  I  can't  think  what  you 
want  more." 

A  touch  of  plaintiveness  and  even  of  protest  had 
come  into  Mrs.  Chadwick's  voice. 

"  Perhaps  what  I  want  is  less,"  he  laughed.  " Per 
haps  she's  too  much  of  a  saint  for  my  taste.  I  think 
she's  a  little  too  much  of  one  for  your  taste,  really  - 
if  you  were  to  be  quite  candid  with  yourself.  Has 
she  spoken  to  you  at  all  about  Barney?  Are  you 
quite  sure  you'll  have  to  reckon  with  her  for  yourself 
and  the  children?" 

At  this  Mrs.  Chadwick  showed  a  frank  alarm. 
"Oh,  quite,  quite  sure!"  she  said.  "She  couldn't  be 
so  lovely  to  us  all  if  she  didn't  mean  to  take  him! 
Why  do  you  ask,  Roger?  You  haven't  any  reason 
for  thinking  she  won't?" 

"None  whatever.  Quite  the  contrary."  He  didn't 
want  to  put  poor  Mrs.  Chadwick  to  the  cruel  test  of 
declaring  whether  she  would  rather  have  the  children 
go  to  church  and  lose  Miss  Toner  and  all  her  monev,. 


70  ADRIENNE  TONER 

or  have  them  stay  away  and  keep  Miss  Toner.  After 
all  such  a  test  was  not  to  be  asked  of  her.  Miss 
Toner  wanted  people  to  follow  their  own  light.  "I 
only  wondered  if  she  talked  to  you  about  him. 
Asked  any  girlish  leading  questions." 

"None,  none  whatever,"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick. 
"But  I  feel  that's  because  she  thinks  she  knows  him 
far  better  than  I  do  and  that  he's  told  her  everything 
already.  It's  rather  hard  to  be  a  mother,  Roger. 
For  of  course,  though  she  is  so  much  better  and 
cleverer  than  I  am,  I  feel  sure  that  no  one  under 
stands  Barney  as  I  do." 

"She'd  be  a  little  cleverer  still  if  she  could  see  that, 
wouldn't  she?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Girls  never  do.  I  was  just 
the  same  when  I  was  engaged  to  Francis.  Even  now 
I  can't  think  that  old  Mrs.  Chadwick  really  under 
stood  him  as  1  did.  It's  very  puzzling,  isn't  it?  Very 
difficult  to  see  things  from  other  people's  point  of 
view.  When  she  pulled  up  the  blind  this  afternoon, 
she  told  me  that  Nancy  and  Barney  were  down  in 
the  copse  and  she  seemed  pleased." 

"Oh,  did  she?" 

"I  told  her  that  they'd  always  been  like  brother 
and  sister,  for  I  was  just  a  little  afraid,  you  know, 
that  she  might  imagine  Barney  had  ever  cared 
about  Nancy." 

"I  see.   You  think  she  wouldn't  like  that?" 

"What  woman  would,  Roger?"  And  he  imagined 
that  Mrs.  Chadwick,  for  all  her  folly,  was  cleverer 
than  Miss  Toner  guessed,  as  she  added:  "And  then 
she  told  me  that  she'd  made  Barney  go  without  her. 
She  wanted  me  to  see,  you  know,  that  it  depended 
on  her.  That's  another  reason  why  I  feel  sure  she  is 
going  to  take  him," 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HE  sat,  for  the  first  time,  next  Miss  Toner  that  night 
at  dinner  and  Nancy  sat  across  from  them  next  Bar 
ney.  Nancy  was  pale,  and  now  that  he  could  scruti 
nize  her  he  imagined  that  the  walk  had  been  more  of 
an  ordeal  than  a  pleasure.  Barney,  no  doubt,  with 
the  merciless  blindness  of  his  state,  had  talked  to  her 
all  the  time  of  Adrienne.  But  Nancy  would  not  have 
minded  that.  She  was  of  the  type  that  hides  its  cut 
for  ever  and  may  become  aunt  and  guardian-angel 
to  the  other  woman's  children.  It  had  not  been 
Barney's  preoccupation  that  had  so  drained  her  of 
warmth  and  colour,  but  its  character,  its  object. 
Her  grey  eyes  had  the  considering  look  with  which 
they  might  have  measured  the  height  of  a  difficult 
hedge  in  hunting,  and,  resting  on  Oldmeadow  once 
or  twice,  seemed  to  tell  him  that  the  walk  had  shown 
her  more  clearly  than  ever  that,  if  Barney  married 
Miss  Toner,  they  must  lose  him.  He  felt  sure  that 
she  had  lain  down  since  tea  with  a  headache  to  which 
had  come  no  ministering  angel. 

She  and  Barney  did  not  talk  to  each  other  now,  for 
he  had  eyes  and  ears  only  for  Miss  Toner.  At  any 
former  time  they  would  have  kept  up  the  happiest 
interchange,  and  Oldmeadow  would  have  seen  Nan 
cy's  eyelashes  close  together  as  she  smiled  her  loving 
smile.  There  was  a  dim  family  likeness  between  her 
face  and  Barney's,  for  both  were  long  and  narrow, 
and  both  had  the  singular  sweetness  in  the  very 
structure  of  the  smile.  But  where  Barney  was 


72  ADRIENNE  TONER 

clumsy,  Nancy  was  clear,  and  her  skin  was  as  fair  as 
his  was  brown.  To  the  fond  onlooker  at  both,  they 
were  destined  mates  and  only  an  insufferable  acci 
dent  had  parted  them. 

Nancy  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  Coldbrooks 
country  as  the  primroses  and  the  blackcaps  in  the 
woods.  Her  life  had  risen  from  the  familiar  soil  to 
the  familiar  sky,  as  preordained  to  fitness,  as  ordered 
by  instinct  and  condition  as  theirs,  and  from  her 
security  of  type  she  had  gained  not  lost  in  savour. 
The  time  that  unfinished  types  must  give  to  growing 
conscious  roots  and  building  conscious  nests,  Nancy 
had  all  free  for  spontaneities  of  flight  and  song. 
Beside  her,  to  his  hostile  eye,  Miss  Toner  was  as  a 
wide-spread  water-weed,  floating,  rootless  and  scent 
less,  upon  chance  currents:  A  creature  of  surfaces,  of 
caprice  and  hazard.  If  the  multiplicity  of  her  in 
formation  constituted  mental  wealth,  its  imper 
sonality  constituted  mental  poverty.  She  was  as 
well  furnished  and  as  deadening  as  a  catalogue,  and 
as  he  listened  to  her,  receiving  an  impression  of 
continual,  considered  movings-on,  earnest  pursuits, 
across  half  the  globe,  of  further  experience,  he  saw 
her  small,  questing  figure  on  a  background  of  rail 
ways,  giant  lines  stretching  forth  across  plain  and 
mountain,  climbing,  tunnelling,  curving;  stopping 
at  great  capitals,  and  passing  on  again  to  glitter  on 
their  endless  way  under  the  sun  and  moon.  That 
was  what  he  seemed  to  see  as  Miss  Toner  talked: 
and  sleeping-berths  and  wardrobe-boxes  and  lux 
urious  suites  in  vast  hotels. 

She  wore  again  her  white  dress,  contrasting  in  its 
richness  of  texture  with  the  simplicity  of  her  day 
time  blue,  and,  rather  stupidly,  an  artificial  white 


ADRIENNE  TONER  73 

rose  had  been  placed,  in  her  braids,  over  each  ear. 
Her  pearls  were  her  only  other  ornament,  and  her 
pearls,  he  supposed,  were  surprising. 

Oldmeadow  was  aware,  in  his  close  proximity  to 
her,  while  she  ate  beside  him  with  a  meticulous 
nicety  that  made  the  manners  of  the  rest  of  them,  by 
contrast,  seem  a  little  casual  and  slovenly,  of  the 
discomfort  that  had  visited  him  in  his  dream.  Yet 
the  feeling  she  evoked  was  not  all  discomfort.  It  was 
as  if  from  her  mere  physical  presence  he  were  sub 
jected  to  some  force  that  had  in  its  compulsion  a 
dim,  conjectural  charm.  It  was  for  this  reason  no 
doubt  that  he  seemed  to  be  aware  of  everything 
about  her.  Her  hands  were  small  and  white,  but 
had  no  beauty  of  form  or  gesture.  She  moved  them 
slowly  and  without  grace,  rather  like  a  young  child 
handling  unfamiliar  objects  in  a  kindergarten,  and 
this  in  spite  of  the  singular  perfection  of  her  table 
manners.  She  could  have  made  little  use  of  them, 
ever,  in  games  of  skill  or  in  any  art  requiring  swift 
accuracy  and  firmness.  It  was  as  if  her  mind,  over 
trained  in  receptivity  and  retentiveness,  had  only 
dull  tentacles  to  spare  for  her  finger-tips.  He  was 
aware  of  these  hands  beside  him  all  through  dinner 
and  their  fumbling  deliberation  brought  to  him, 
again  and  again,  a  mingled  annoyance,  and  satisfac 
tion.  There  was  something  positive  and  character 
istic  about  her  scentlessness,  for  if  she  smelt  of  any 
thing  it  was  of  Fuller's  Earth  —  a  funny,  chalky 
smell  —  and  beside  Meg,  who  foolishly  washed  liq 
uid  powder  over  her  silvery  skin,  Miss  Toner's 
colourlessness  was  sallow.  She  had  hardly  talked  at 
all  the  night  before,  but  to-night  she  talked  con 
tinuously.  It  was  Meg  who  questioned  her,  and  Mrs. 


74  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Chadwick,  and  Oldmeadow  guessed  that  his  ingenu 
ous  friend,  still  perplexed  by  his  use  of  the  word 
foolish,  was  drawing  out  and  displaying  her  future 
daughter-in-law  for  his  benefit. 

Miss  Toner  and  her  mother  had  been  to  Russia, 
to  India,  to  China  and  Japan.  They  had  visited 
Stevenson's  grave  at  Vailima  and  in  describing  it 
she  quoted  "Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky."  They 
had  studied  every  temple  in  Greece  and  Sicily  and 
talked  of  the  higher  education  with  ladies  in  Turkish 
harems.  "But  it  was  always  Paris  we  came  back 
to,"  she  said,  "when  we  were  not  at  home.  Home 
was,  and  is,  a  great  many  places:  California  and 
Chicago  —  where  my  father's  people  live,  and  New 
England.  But  Paris  was,  after  it,  closest  to  our 
hearts.  Yes,  we  knew  a  great  many  French  people; 
but  it  was  for  study  rather  than  friendship  we  went 
there.  It  is  such  a  treasure-house  of  culture.  Mother 
worked  very  hard  at  French  diction  for  several  win 
ters.  She  had  lessons  from  Mademoiselle  Jouffert  — 
you  know  perhaps  —  though  she  has  not  acted  for 
so  many  years  now.  Our  friendship  with  her  was  a 
great  privilege,  for  she  was  a  rare  and  noble  woman 
and  had  a  glorious  gift.  Phedre  was  her  favourite 
r61e  and  I  shall  never  forget  her  rendering  of  it: 

Ariane  ma  sceur!  de  quel  amour  blessee 

Vous  mourtites  aux  bords  ou  vous  fdtes  laissee! 

She  taught  Mother  to  recite  Phedre's  great  speeches 
with  such  fire  and  passion.  There  could  hardly  be  a 
better  training  for  French,"  said  Miss  Toner,  repeat 
ing  the  lines  with  a  curious  placidity  and  perfection. 
"I  preferred  Mademoiselle  Jouffert's  rendering  to 
Bernhardt's.  Her  Phedre  was,  with  all  the  fire,  more 
tender  and  womanly." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  75 

"Do  you  care  about  Racine?"  Oldmeadow  asked 
her,  while  the  lines  rang  in  his  ears  —  rather  as  in 
his  dream  the  rooks'  cawing  had  done  —  with  an 
evocative  sadness  that  hung,  irrelevantly,  about 
their  speaker.  "It's  not  easy  for  our  English  ears 
to  hear  the  fire  and  passion,  is  it;  but  they  are 
there." 

"He  is  very  perfect  and  accomplished,"  said  Miss 
Toner.  "But  I  always  feel  him  small  beside  our 
Shakespeare.  He  lacks  heart,  doesn't  he?" 

"There's  heart  in  those  lines  you've  just  recited." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Toner.  "Those  lines  are  cer 
tainly  very  beautiful.  It's  the  mere  music  of  them, 
I  think.  They  make  me  feel  —  "she  paused.  It 
was  unlike  her  to  pause  and  he  wondered  what  she 
made  of  Ariane,  off  her  own  bat,  without  Mademoi 
selle  Jouffert  to  help  her. 

"They  make  you  feel?"  he  questioned. 

"They  are  so  sad  —  so  terribly  melancholy.  The 
sound  of  them.  They  make  me  want  to  cry  when  I 
hear  them.  But  I  think  it's  the  sound;  for  their 
meaning  makes  me  indignant.  There  is  such  weak 
ness  in  them ;  such  acceptance  of  destiny.  I  want  to 
revolt  and  protest,  too  —  for  women.  She  should 
not  have  died." 

Oldmeadow  involuntarily  glanced  across  at 
Nancy.  She  was  looking  at  Miss  Toner  and  if  she 
had  been  pale  before,  she  was  paler  now.  Nancy 
would  never  think  of  herself  in  connection  with 
Ariane  and  tragic  grief;  yet  something  in  the  lines, 
something  in  Miss  Toner's  disavowal  of  their  ap 
plicability,  had  touched  the  hidden  cut.  And,  once 
again,  it  was  Meg's  eyes  that  met  his,  showing  him 
that  what  he  saw  she  saw,  too.  Barney  saw  nothing. 


'76  ADRIENNE  TONER 

All  his  solicitude  was  for  Miss  Toner  in  her  imagin 
ary  plight.  "I'm  sure  you  never  would!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "  Never  die,  I  mean !" 

"You  think  Miss  Toner  would  have  come  to 
terms  with  Bacchus,"  Oldmeadow  suggested.  He 
didn't  want  to  take  it  out  of  Barney,  though  he  was 
vexed  with  him,  nor  to  take  it  out  of  Miss  Toner, 
either.  He  only  wanted  to  toss  and  twist  the  theme 
and  make  it  gay  where  Miss  Toner  made  it  solemn. 

"Come  to  terms  with  Bacchus!"  Barney  quite 
stared,  taken  aback  by  the  irreverence.  "Why 
should  she !  She'd  have  found  somebody  more  worth 
while  than  either  of  the  ruffians." 

Miss  Toner  smiled  over  at  him. 

"I'm  sure  that  if  Bacchus  had  been  fortunate 
enough  to  meet  Miss  Toner  she'd  have  converted 
him  to  total  abstinence  in  a  jiffy  and  made  a  model 
husband  of  him.  He  was  a  fine,  exhilarating  fellow; 
no  ruffian  at  all;  quite  worth  reforming."  Old- 
meadow,  as  he  thus  embroidered  his  theme,  was 
indulging  in  his  own  peculiar  form  of  mirth. 

He  saw  Miss  Toner  laying  her  hand  on  the  head 
of  Bacchus;  Miss  Toner  very  picturesque  on  the 
rugged  sea-shore  in  her  white  and  pearls  and  roses, 
and  Bacchus  dazed  and  penitent,  his  very  leopards 
tamed  to  a  cat-like  docility.  His  laugh  was  visible 
rather  than  audible  and  that  Miss  Toner  had  never 
before  been  the  subject  of  such  mirth  was  evident  to 
him. 

She  met  whatever  she  saw  or  guessed  of  irrever 
ence,  however,  as  composedly  as  she  would  have 
met  Bacchus;  perhaps  already,  he  reflected,  she  was 
beginning  to  think  of  him  in  the  light  of  an  unde 
sirable  wine-bibber.  Perhaps  even,  she  was  begin- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  77 

ning  to  think  of  him  as  a  ruffian.  He  didn't  mind  in 
the  least,  so  long  as  he  succeeded  in  keeping  off  her 
solemnity. 

"I  should  have  been  quite  willing  to  try  and  re 
form  him,"  she  said;  "though  it  takes  much  longer 
than  a  jiffy  to  reform  people,  Mr.  Oldmeadow;  but 
I  shouldn't  have  been  willing  to  marry  him.  There 
are  other  things  in  life,  aren't  there,  than  love- 
stories  —  even  for  women." 

"Bravo!"  said  Oldmeadow.  He  felt  as  well  as 
uttered  it.  She  wasn't  being  solemn,  and  she  had 
returned  his  shuttlecock  smartly.  "  But  are  there?" 
he  went  on.  He  had  adjusted  his  eyeglass  for  a 
clearer  confrontation  of  her. 

Miss  Toner's  large  eyes,  enlarged  still  further  by 
the  glass,  met  his,  not  solemnly,  but  with  a  consider 
ing  gravity. 

"You  are  a  sceptic,  Mr.  Oldmeadow,"  she  ob 
served.  "A  satirist.  Do  you  find  that  satire  and 
scepticism  take  you  very  far  in  reading  human 
hearts?" 

"There's  one  for  you,  Roger!"  cried  Barney. 

Oldmeadow  kept  his  gaze  fixed  on  Miss  Toner. 
"  You  think  that  Ariane  might  prefer  Infant  Welfare 
work  or  Charity  Organization  to  a  love-story?" 

"Not  those  necessarily."  She  returned  his  gaze. 
"Though  I  have  known  very  fine  big  people  who  did 
prefer  them.  But  they  are  not  the  only  alternatives 
to  love-stories." 

"I  am  sceptical,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "I  am,  if 
you  like,  satirical.  I  don't  believe  there  are  any 
alternatives  to  love-stories;  only  palliatives  to  dis 
appointment." 

Barney    leaned    forward:    "Adrienne,    you    see, 


78  ADRIENNE  TONER 

doesn't  accept  that  old-fashioned,  sentimentalizing 
division  of  the  sexes.  She  doesn't  accept  the  merely 
love-story,  hearth-side  role  for  women." 

"Oh,  well,"  Oldmeadow  played  with  his  fork, 
smiling  with  the  wryness  that  accompanied  his 
reluctant  sincerities,  "  I  don't  divide  the  sexes  as  far 
as  love-stories  are  concerned.  We  are  all  in  the  same 
boat.  For  us,  too,  Barney,  it's  love-story  or  pallia 
tive.  You  don't  agree?  If  you  were  disappointed  in 
love?  Hunting?  Farming?  Politics?  Post-Impres 
sionism?  Would  any  of  them  fill  the  gap?" 

It  wasn't  at  all  the  line  he  had  intended  the  talk 
to  take.  He  knew  that  as  he  glanced  across  at 
Nancy.  Saying  nothing,  as  if  its  subject  could  not 
concern  her,  and  with  a  dim  little  smile,  she  listened, 
and  he  knew  that  for  her,  though  she  wouldn't  die  of 
it,  there  would  be  only  palliatives.  If  only  Barney, 
confound  him,  hadn't  been  so  charming. 

Barney  did  not  know  how  to  answer  the  last 
assault,  and,  boyishly,  looked  across  at  his  beloved 
for  succour.  She  gave  it  instantly. 

"Sadness,  sorrow,  tragedy,  even,  isn't  despair," 
she  said.  "Barney,  I  believe,  if  sorrow  overtook 
him,  would  mould  the  rough  clay  of  his  occupation 
to  some  higher  beauty  than  the  beauty  he'd  lost. 
To  lie  down  and  die ;  to  resign  oneself  to  palliatives. 
Oh,  no.  That's  not  the  destiny  of  the  human  soul." 

"Roger's  pulling  your  leg,  Barney,  as  usual," 
Palgrave  put  in  scornfully.  He  had  been  listening 
with  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his  eyes  on  the  table 
cloth.  "He  knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  there's  only 
one  love.  The  sort  you're  all  talking  about  —  the 
Theseus  and  Ariane  affair  • —  is  merely  an  ebullition 
of  youth  and  as  soon  as  nature  has  perpetuated  the 


ADRIENNE  TONER  79 

species  by  means  of  it,  it  settles  down,  if  there's  any 
reality  under  the  ebullition,  to  grow  into  the  other 
-  the  divine  love;  the  love  of  the  soul  for  the  Good, 
the  True  and  the  Beautiful,"  Palgrave  declared, 
growing  very  red  as  he  said  it. 

"Really  —  my  dear  child!"  Mrs.  Chadwick  mur 
mured.  She  had  never  heard  such  themes  broached 
at  her  table  and  glanced  nervously  up  at  old  John 
son  to  see  if  he  had  followed.  "That  is  a  very,  very 
materialistic  view!" 

Oldmeadow  at  this  began  to  laugh,  audibly  as 
well  as  visibly,  and  Palgrave,  as  their  eyes  met  in  a 
glance  of  communicated  comedy,  could  not  with 
hold  an  answering  smile.  But  Barney's  face  showed 
that  he  preferred  to  see  Palgrave 's  interpretation  as 
materialistic  and  even  Miss  Toner  looked  thought 
fully  at  her  champion. 

"But  we  need  the  symbol  of  youth  and  nature," 
she  suggested.  "The  divine  love,  yes,  Palgrave,  is 
the  only  real  one;  but  then  all  love  is  divine  and 
human  love  sometimes  brings  the  deepest  revelation 
of  all.  Browning  saw  that  so  wonderfully." 

"Browning,  my  dear!"  Palgrave  returned  with  a 
curious  mingling  of  devotion,  intimacy  and  aloof 
ness,  "Browning  never  got  nearer  God  than  a  wo 
man's  breast!" 

At  this,  almost  desperately,  Mrs.  Chadwick  broke 
in:  "  Did  you  ever  see  our  Ellen  Terry  act,  Adrienne? 
I  liked  her  much  better  than  Madame  Bernhardt 
who  had  such  a  very  artificial  face,  I  think.  I  can't 
imagine  her  as  Rosalind,  can  you?  While  Miss  Terry 
was  a  perfect  Rosalind.  I  met  her  once  with  Henry 
Irving  at  a  garden-party  in  London  and  she  was  as 
charming  off  as  on  the  stage  and  I'm  sure  I  can't  see 


8o  ADRIENNE  TONER 

why  anybody  should  wish  to  act  Phedre  —  poor, 
uncontrolled  creature.  Rhubarb-tart,  dear,  and 
custard?  or  wine- jelly  and  cream?  How  beautifully 
you  speak  French.  How  many  languages  do  you 
speak?"  Mrs.  Chadwick  earnestly  inquired,  still 
turning  the  helm  firmly  away  from  the  unbecoming 
topic. 

Miss  Toner  kept  her  head  very  creditably  and, 
very  tactfully,  at  once  accepted  her  hostess's  hint. 
"Rhubarb-tart,  please,  dear  Mrs.  Chadwick.  Not 
so  very  many,  really.  My  German  has  never  been 
good;  though  French  and  Italian  I  do  know  well, 
and  enough  Spanish  for  Don  Quixote.  But,"  she 
went  on,  while  Mrs.  Chadwick  looked  gratefully  at 
her,  "  Mother  and  I  were  always  working.  We  never 
wasted  any  of  our  precious  hours  together.  She 
couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  missing  anything  in 
life;  and  she  missed  very  little,  I  think.  Music, 
poetry,  painting  —  all  the  treasure-houses  of  the 
human  spirit — were  open  to  her.  And  what  she  won 
and  made  her  own,  she  gave  out  again  with  greater 
radiance.  How  I  wish  you  could  all  have  known 
her!"  said  Miss  Toner,  looking  round  at  them  with 
an  unaccustomed  touch  of  wistfulness.  "She  was 
radiance  personified.  She  never  let  unhappiness  rest 
on  her.  I  remember  once,  when  she  had  had  a  cruel 
blow  from  a  person  she  loved  and  trusted  —  in  the 
middle  of  her  sadness  she  looked  at  me  and  saw  how 
sad  she  was  making  me;  and  she  sprang  up  and 
seized  my  hands  and  cried:  'Let's  dance!  Let's 
dance  and  dance  and  dance!'  And  we  did,  up  and 
down  the  terrace  —  it  was  at  San  Remo  —  she  in 
her  white  dress,  with  the  blue  sky  and  sea  and  the 
orange- trees  all  in  bloom.  I  can  see  her  now.  And 


ADRIENNE  TONER  81 

then  she  rushed  to  get  music,  her  harp,  and  flowers 
and  fruit,  to  take  to  an  invalid  friend,  and  we  spent 
the  afternoon  with  her,  mother  surpassing  herself  in 
charm  and  witchery.  She  was  always  like  that.  She 
would  have  found  something,  oh,  very  beautiful,  to 
make  from  her  sorrow  if  Theseus  had  abandoned 
her!  But  no  one,"  said  Miss  Toner,  looking  round  at 
Old  meadow,  now  with  a  mild  playfulness,  "could 
ever  have  abandoned  Mother." 

There  was  something  to  Oldmeadow  appealing  in 
her  playfulness;  her  confidence,  when  it  took  on  this 
final  grace,  was  really  touching.  For  Mrs.  Toner  the 
light-giver  he  knew  that  he  had  conceived  a  rooted 
aversion.  And  he  wondered  if  she  would  go  on,  over 
the  rhubarb-tart,  to  tell,  after  the  dancing  on  the  ter 
race,  of  the  death  at  sea.  But  he  was  spared  that. 

"And  your  father  died  when  you  were  very  young, 
didn't  he,  dear?"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick,  fearful  of  the 
reference  to  Theseus.  "I  think  your  mother  must 
often  have  been  so  very  lonely ;  away  from  home  for 
such  a  great  part  of  the  time  and  with  so  few  rela 
tives." 

Miss  Toner  shook  her  head.  "We  were  always 
together,  she  and  I,  so  we  could  never,  either  of  us, 
be  lonely.  And  wherever  we  went  she  made  friends. 
People  were  always  so  much  more  than  mere  people 
to  her.  She  saw  them  always,  at  once,  high  and  low, 
prince  and  peasant,  as  souls,  and  they  felt  it  always, 
and  opened  to  her.  Then,  until  I  was  quite  big,  we 
had  my  lovely  grandmother.  Mother  came  from 
Maine  and  it  was  such  a  joy  to  go  and  stay  there 
with  Grandma.  It  was  a  very  simple  little  home.  It 
was  always  high  thinking  and  plain  living,  with 
Grandma;  and  though,  when  she  married  and  be- 


82  ADRIENNE  TONER 

came  rich,  Mother  showered  beautiful  things  upon 
her,  Grandma  stayed  always  in  the  little  house, 
doing  for  her  poor  neighbours,  as  she  had  always 
done,  and  dusting  her  parlour  —  a  real  New  Eng 
land  parlour  —  and  making  her  own  griddle  cakes 
—  such  wonderful  cakes  she  made!  I  was  fifteen 
when  she  died ;  but  the  tie  was  so  close  and  spiritual 
that  she  did  not  seem  gone  away  from  us." 


CHAPTER  IX 

"  RATHER  nice  to  think  that  there  are  so  many  good 
and  innocent  people  in  the  world,  isn't  it,"  Barney 
remarked,  when  he,  Palgrave  and  Oldmeadow  were 
left  to  their  wine  and  cigars.  It  was  evident  that  he 
would  have  preferred  to  omit  the  masculine  inter 
lude,  but  Oldmeadow  was  resolved  on  the  respite. 
She  had  touched  him  because  she  was  so  unaware; 
but  he  was  weary  and  disconcerted.  How  could 
Barney  be  unaware?  And  was  he?  Altogether? 
His  comment  seemed  to  suggest  a  suspicion  that 
Miss  Toner's  flow  might  have  aroused  irony  or  re 
quire  justification. 

"Miss  Toner  and  her  mother  seem  to  have  found 
the  noble  and  the  gifted  under  every  bush,"  he  re 
marked,  and  he  was  not  sure  that  he  wished  to  avoid 
irony  though  he  knew  that  he  did  wish  to  conceal  it 
from  Barney.  "It's  very  good  and  innocent  to  be 
able  to  do  that;  but  one  may  keep  one's  goodness 
at  the  risk  of  one's  discrimination.  Not  that  Miss 
Toner  is  at  all  stupid." 

Palgrave  neither  smoked  nor  drank.  He  had 
again  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  head  on 
his  fists,  but,  while  Oldmeadow  spoke,  he  lifted  and 
kept  his  gaze  on  him.  "You  don't  like  her,"  he  said 
suddenly.  He  and  Oldmeadow  had,  irrepressibly, 
over  Mrs.  Chadwick's  conception  of  materialism, 
interchanged  their  smile  at  dinner;  but  since  the 
morning  Oldmeadow  had  known  that  Palgrave  sus 
pected  him  of  indifference,  perhaps  even  hostility, 
towards  the  new-comer.  "Why  don't  you  like  her?" 


84  ADRIENNE  TONER 

the  boy  went  on  and  with  a  growing  resentment 
as  his  suspicions  found  voice.  "She  isn't  stupid; 
that's  just  it.  She's  good  and  noble  and  innocent; 
and  gifted,  too.  Why  should  we  pretend  to  be  too 
sophisticated  to  recognize  such  beauty  when  we 
meet  it?  Why  should  we  be  ashamed  of  beauty  - 
afraid  of  it?" 

Barney,  flushing  deeply,  looked  down  into  his 
wine-glass. 

"My  dear  Palgrave,  I  don't  understand  you," 
said  Oldmeadow.  But  he  did.  He  seemed  to  hear 
the  loud  beating  of  Palgrave's  heart.  "I  don't  dis 
like  Miss  Toner.  How  should  I?  I  don't  know  her." 

"You  do  know  her.  That's  an  evasion.  It's  all 
there.  She  can't  be  seen  without  being  known.  It's 
all  there;  at  once.  I  don't  know  why  you  don't  like 
her.  It's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"Drop  it,  Palgrave,"  Barney  muttered.  "Let 
Roger  alone.  He  and  Adrienne  get  on  very  well 
together.  It's  no  good  forcing  things." 

"I'm  not  forcing  anything.  It's  Roger  who  forces 
his  scepticism  and  his  satire  on  us,"  Palgrave  de 
clared. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  displeased  you,"  said  Old- 
meadow  with  a  slight  severity.  "I  am  unaware  of 
having  displayed  my  disagreeable  qualities  more 
than  is  usual  with  me." 

"Of  course  not.  What  rot,  Palgrave!  Roger  is 
always  disagreeable,  bless  him!"  Barney  declared 
with  a  forced  laugh.  "Adrienne  understands  him 
perfectly.  As  he  says:  she  isn't  stupid." 

"Oh,  all  right.  I'm  sorry,"  Palgrave  rose,  thrust 
ing  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  looking  down  at  the 
two  as  he  stood  above  them.  He  hesitated  and  then 


ADRIENNE  TONER  85, 

went  on:  "All  I  know  is  that  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  —  the  very  first  time,  mind  you  —  all  the  things 
we  are  told  about  in  religion,  all  the  things  we  read 
about  in  poetry,  the  things  we're  supposed  to  care 
for  and  live  by,  have  been  made  real  to  me  —  out 
side  of  books  and  churches.  What  do  we  ever  see  of 
them  at  home  here,  with  dear  Mummy  and  the  girls? 
What  do  we  ever  talk  of,  all  of  us  —  but  the  ever 
lasting  round  —  hunting,  gardening,  cricket,  hay; 
village  treats  and  village  charities.  A  lot  of  chatter 
about  people  -  -  What  a  rotter  So-and-so  is ;  and 
How  perfectly  sweet  somebody  else:  and  a  little 
about  politics  —  Why  doesn't  somebody  shoot 
Lloyd  George?  —  and  How  wicked  Home  Rulers 
are.  That's  about  all  it  amounts  to.  Oh,  I  know 
we're  not  as  stupid  as  we  sound.  She  sees  that.  We 
can  feel  things  and  see  things  though  we  express 
ourselves  like  savages.  But  we're  too  comfortable 
to  think;  that's  what's  the  trouble  with  us.  We 
don't  want  to  change;  and  thought  means  change. 
And  we're  shy;  idiotically  shy;  afraid  to  express 
anything  as  it  really  comes  to  us;  so  that  I  some 
times  wonder  if  things  will  go  on  coming ;  if  we  shan't 
become  like  the  Chinese  —  a  sort  of  objet  (Tart  set  of 
people,  living  by  rote,  in  a  rut.  Well.  That's  all  I 
mean.  With  her  one  isn't  ashamed  or  afraid  to  know 
and  say  what  one  feels.  With  her  one  wants  to  feel 
more.  And  I,  for  one,  reverence  her  and  am  grateful 
to  her  for  having  made  beauty  and  goodness  real  to 
me."  Having  so  delivered  himself,  Palgrave,  who 
had,  after  his  deep  flush,  become  pale,  turned  away 
and  marched  out  of  the  room. 

The  older  men  sat  silent  for  a  moment,   Old- 
meadow  continuing  to  smoke  and  Barney  turning 


86  ADRIENNE  TONER 

the  stem  of  his  wine-glass  in  his  fingers.  "I'm  aw 
fully  sorry,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  can't  think  what's 
got  into  the  boy.  He's  in  rather  a  moil  just  now,  I 
fancy." 

"  He's  a  dear  boy,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "There's 
any  amount  of  truth  in  what  he  says.  He's  at  an  age 
when  one  sees  these  things,  if  one  is  ever  going  to  see 
them.  I  hope  he'll  run  straight.  He  ought  to  amount 
to  something." 

"That's  what  Adrienne  says,"  said  Barney. 
"She  says  he's  a  poet.  You  think,  too,  then,  that 
we're  all  in  such  a  rut;  living  Chinese  lives;  autom 
ata?" 

"  It's  the  problem  of  civilization,  isn't  it,  to  combine 
automatism  with  freedom.  Without  a  rut  to  walk  in 
you  reach  nowhere  —  if  we're  to  walk  together. 
And  yet  we  must  manage  to  ramble,  too ;  individuals 
must;  that's  what  it  comes  to,  I  suppose.  Individu 
als  must  take  the  risk  of  rambling  and  alter  the  line 
of  the  rut  for  the  others.  Palgrave  may  be  a  rambler. 
But  I  hope  he  won't  go  too  far  afield." 

"  You  do  like  her,  Roger,  don't  you?"  said  Barney 
suddenly. 

It  had  had  to  come.  Oldmeadow  knew  that,  as 
the  depth  of  silence  fell  about  them.  It  was  inevi 
table  between  them,  of  course.  Yet  he  wished  it 
might  have  been  avoided,  since  now  it  must  be  too 
late.  He  pressed  out  the  glow  of  his  cigar  and  leaned 
his  arms  on  the  table,  not  looking  at  his  friend  while 
he  meditated,  and  he  said  finally  —  and  it  might 
seem,  he  knew,  another  evasion —  "Look  here, 
Barney,  I  must  tell  you  something.  You  know  how 
much  I  care  about  Nancy.  Well,  that's  the  trouble. 
It's  Nancy  I  wanted  you  to  many." , 


ADRIENNE  TONER  87 

Barney  had,  held  himself  ready  and  a  deep,  in 
voluntary  sigh  of  relief,  or  of  postponed  suspense, 
now  escaped  him.  "I  see.  I  didn't  realize  that,"  he 
said.  And  how  he  hoped,  poor  Barney!  it  was  all 
there  was  to  realize!  "Of  course  I'm  very  fond  of 
Nancy." 

"You  realize,  of  course,  how  fond  she  is  of  you." 

"Well;  yes;  of  course.  We're  both  awfully  good 
pals,"  said  Barney,  confused. 

"That's  what  Palgrave  would  call  speaking  like  a 
savage,  Barney.  Own  to  it  that  if  Miss  Toner  hadn't 
appeared  upon  the  scene  you  could  have  hoped  to 
make  Nancy  your  wife.  I  don't  say  you  made  love 
to  her  or  misled  her  in  any  way.  I'm  sure  you  never 
meant  to  at  any  rate.  But  the  fact  remains  that  you 
were  both  so  fond  of  each  other  that  you  would  cer 
tainly  have  married.  So  you'll  understand  that 
when  I  come  down  here  and  find  Miss  Toner  in 
stalled  as  tutelary  goddess  over  you  all,  what  I'm 
mainly  conscious  of  is  grief  for  my  dear  little  rele 
gated  nymph." 

Still  deeply  flushed,  but  still  feeling  his  relief, 
Barney  turned  his  wine-glass  and  murmured:  "I 
see.  I  quite  understand.  Yes;  I  should  have  been  in 
love  with  her,  I  own.  I  nearly  was,  last  winter.  As 
to  her  being  in  love  with  me,  that's  a  different  mat 
ter.  I've  no  reason  to  think  she  was  in  love.  It 
would  just  be  a  difference  of  degree,  with  Nancy, 
wouldn't  it ;  she  loves  us  all  so  much,  and  she's  really 
such  a  child,  still.  Of  course  that's  what  she  seems  to 
me  now,  since  Adrienne's  come ;  just  a  darling  child." 

"  I  suppose  so.  But  you  understand  what  I  feel, 
too.  I  feel  her  much  more  than  a  darling  child,  and 
it's  difficult  for  me  to  like  anybody  who  has  dispos- 


88  ADRIENNE  TONER 

sessed  her.  I  perfectly  recognize  Miss  Toner's  re 
markable  qualities  and  hope  to  count  myself  among 
her  friends  one  day ;  but,  being  a  satirist  and  a  scep 
tic,  I  rebel  instinctively  against  goddesses  of  what 
ever  brand.  Nymphs  are  good  enough  for  me;  and 
I  can't  help  wishing,  irrepressibly,  that  nymphs  had 
remained  good  enough  for  you,  my  dear  boy." 

" It  isn't  a  question  of  nymphs;  it  isn't  a  question 
of  goddesses,"  Barney  said,  glancing  up  now  at  his 
friend.  "I'm  awfully  sorry  about  Nancy;  but  of 
course  she'll  find  some  one  far  better  than  I  am; 
she's  such  a  dear.  You're  not  quite  straight  with 
me,  Roger.  I  don't  see  Adrienne  as  a  goddess  at  all ; 
I'm  not  like  Palgrave,  a  silly  boy,  bowled  over.  It's 
something  quite  different  she  does  to  me.  She  makes 
me  feel  safe ;  safe  and  happy  in  a  way  I  never  imag 
ined  possible.  It's  like  having  the  sunlight  fall  about 
one ;  it's  like  life,  new  life,  to  be  with  her.  She's  not 
a  goddess;  but  she's  the  woman  it  would  break  my 
heart  to  part  with.  I  never  met  such  loveliness." 

"My  dear  boy,"  Oldmeadow  murmured.  He  still 
leaned  on  the  table  and  he  still  looked  down.  "  I  do 
wish  you  every  happiness,  as  you  know."  He  was 
deeply  touched  and  Barney's  quiet  words  troubled 
him  as  he  had  not  before  been  troubled. 

"Thanks.  I  know  you  do.  I  know  you  care  for 
my  happiness.  And  I  can't  imagine  anything  com 
ing  into  my  life  that  would  make  a  difference  to  us. 
That's  just  it."  Barney  paused.  "It  won't,  will  it, 
Roger?" 

The  crisis  was  again  upon  them.  Oldmeadow  did 
not  look  up  as  he  said:  "That  depends  on  her, 
doesn't  it?" 

"No;  it  depends  on  you,"  Barney  quickly  replied. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  89 

"She  likes  you,  quite  immensely,  already.  She 
says  you  make  her  think  of  one  of  Meredith's  dry, 
deep-hearted  heroes,"  Barney  gave  a  slightly  awk 
ward  laugh,  deprecating  the  homage  as  he  offered  it. 
"She  says  you  are  the  soul  of  truth.  There's  no 
reason,  none  whatever,  why  you  shouldn't  be  the 
best  of  friends,  as  far  as  she  is  concerned.  It's  all  she 
asks." 

"It's  all  I  ask,  of  course." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  if  you  don't  meet  her  half 
way?  Sometimes  I  do  see  what  Palgrave  means. 
Sometimes  you  misunderstand  her." 

"Very  likely.  It  takes  time  really  to  understand 
people,  doesn't  it." 

But  poor  Barney  was  embarked  and  could  not  but 
ptrsh  on.  "As  just  now,  you  know,  about  finding 
nobility  behind  every  bush  and  paying  for  one's 
goodness  by  losing  one's  discrimination.  There  are 
deep  realities  and  superficial  realities,  aren't  there, 
and  she  sees  the  deep  ones  first.  It's  more  than  that. 
Palgrave  says  she  makes  reality.  He  didn't  say  it  to 
me,  because  I  don't  think  he  feels  me  to  be  worthy 
of  her.  He  said  it  to  Mother,  and  puzzled  her  by  it. 
But  I  know  what  he  means.  It's  because  of  that  he 
feels  her  to  be  a  sort  of  saint.  Do  be  straight  with 
me,  Roger.  Say  what  you  really  think.  I'd  rather 
know;  much.  You've  never  kept  things  from  me 
before,"  Barney  added  in  a  sudden  burst  of  boyish 
distress. 

"My  dear  Barney,"  Oldmeadow  murmured. 

It  had  to  come,  then.  He  pushed  back  his  chair 
and  turned  in  it,  resting  an  arm  on  the  table ;  and  he 
passed  his  hand  over  his  head  and  kept  it  there  while 
he  stared  for  a  moment  hard  at  the  ceiling. 


90  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"I  think  you've  made  a  mistake,"  he  then  said. 

"A  mistake?"  Barney  faltered  blushing.  It  was 
not  anger ;  it  was  pain,  simple,  boyish  pain  that  thus 
confessed  itself. 

"Yes;  a  mistake,"  Old  meadow  repeated,  not 
looking  at  him,  "and  since  I  fear  it's  gone  too  far  to 
be  mended,  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  if 
you'd  not  pressed  me,  my  dear  boy." 

"How  do  you  mean?  I'd  rather  know,  you  see," 
Barney  murmured,  after  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  mean  about  the  goodness,  or  the  power," 
said  Oldmeadow.  "She  is  good,  and  she  has  power; 
but  that's  in  part,  I  feel,  because  she  has  no  inhibi 
tions  —  no  doubts.  To  know  reality  we  must  do 
more  than  blow  soap-bubbles  with  it.  It  must  break 
us  to  be  known.  She's  never  been  broken.  Perhaps 
she  never  will  be.  And  in  that  case  she'll  go  on 
blind." 

Barney  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  that  it  was 
not  as  bad  as  he  had  feared  it  might  be  was  apparent 
from  the  attempted  calm  with  which  he  asked, 
presently:  "Why  shouldn't  you  be  blind  to  evil  and 
absurdity  if  you  can  see  much  further  than  most 
people  into  goodness?  Perhaps  one  must  be  one 
sided  to  go  far." 

"Perhaps.  But  it's  dangerous  to  be  one-sided  - 
to  oneself  and  others.  And  does  she  see  further? 
That's  the  question.  Doesn't  she  tend,  rather,  to 
accept  as  first-rate  what  you  incline  to  find  second? 
You're  less  strong  than  she  is,  Barney,  and  less  good, 
no  doubt.  But  you  can't  deny  that  you're  less  blind. 
So  what  you  must  ask  yourself  is  whether  you  can 
be  sure  of  being  happy  with  a  wife  who'll  never 
doubt  herself  and  who'll  not  see  absurdity  where  you 


ADRIENNE  TONER  91 

see  it.  Put  it  at  that.  Will  you  be  happy  with  her?" 

He  was,  he  knew,  justified  of  Miss  Toner's  com 
mendation,  for  truth  between  friends  could  go  no 
further  and,  in  the  silence,  while  he  sickened  for  his 
friend,  he  felt  it  searching  Barney's  heart.  How  it 
searched,  how  many  echoes  it  found  awaiting  it,  was 
proved  by  the  prolongation  of  the  silence. 

"I  think  you  exaggerate,"  said  Barney  at  length, 
and  in  the  words  Oldmeadow  read  his  refusal  to 
examine  further  the  truths  revealed  to  him.  "You 
see  all  the  defects  and  none  of  the  beauty.  It  can't 
be  a  mistake  if  I  can  see  both.  She'll  learn  a  little 
from  me,  that's  what  it  comes  to,  for  all  the  lot  I'll 
have  to  learn  from  her.  I'll  be  happy  with  her  if  I'm 
worthy  of  her.  What  it  comes  to,  you  see,  as  I  said 
at  the  beginning,  is  that  I  can't  be  happy  without 
her."  He  rose  and  Oldmeadow,  rising  also,  knew 
that  they  closed  upon  an  unresolved  discord.  Yet 
these  final  words  of  Barney's  pleased  him  so  much 
that  he  could  not  leave  it  quite  at  that. 

"Mine  may  be  the  mistake,  after  all,"  he  said. 
"Only  you  must  give  me  time  to  find  it  out.  I  began 
by  telling  you  I  couldn't  be  really  dispassionate; 
and  I  feel  much  better  for  our  talk,  if  that's  any 
satisfaction  to  you.  If  you  can  learn  from  each  other 
and  see  the  truth  together,  you'll  be  happy.  You're 
right  there,  Barney.  That  is  what  it  comes  to." 
They  moved  towards  the  door.  "Try  not  to  dislike 
me  for  my  truth  too  much,"  he  added. 

"My  dear  old  fellow,"  Barney  muttered.  He  laid 
his  hand  for  a  moment  on  his  friend's  shoulder, 
standing  back  for  him  to  pass  first.  "Nothing  can 
ever  alter  things  between  you  and  me." 

But  things  were  altered  already. 


CHAPTER  X 

PALGRAVE  had  not  gone  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
that,  at  all  events,  was  a  comfort.  A  wood  fire 
burned  on  the  hearth  and  near  it  Nancy  was  holding 
wool  for  Mrs.  Chad  wick  to  wind.  Barbara  had  been 
sent  to  bed  and  Meg  and  Miss  Toner  sat  on  the  sofa 
hand  in  hand.  Even  in  the  pressure  of  his  distress 
and  anxiety  Oldmeadow  could  but  be  aware  of 
amusement  at  seeing  Meg  thus.  It  had,  of  course, 
been  Miss  Toner  who  had  taken  her  hand.  But  no 
one  else  could  have  taken  it.  No  one  else  could  have 
been  allowed  to  go  on  holding  it  placidly  before  on 
lookers  of  whose  mirthful  impressions  Meg  must  be 
well  aware  She  didn't  mind  in  the  least.  That  was 
what  Miss  Toner  had  done  to  her.  She  enjoyed 
having  her  hand  held  by  anyone  so  much  interested 
in  her. 

Barney  walked  to  the  fireplace  and  stood  before 
it.  He  had  no  faculty  for  concealing  his  emotions 
and  the  painful  ones  through  which  he  had  just 
passed  were  visible  on  his  sensitive  face. 

"Give  us  a  song,  Meg,"  Oldmeadow  suggested. 
He  did  not  care  for  Meg's  singing,  which  conveyed, 
in  a  rich,  sweet  medium,  a  mingled  fervour  and 
shallowness  of  feeling.  But  to  hear  her  sing  would 
be  better  than  to  see  her  holding  Miss  Toner's  hand. 

Barney  crossed  at  once  to  the  seat  Meg  vacated 
and  dropped  down  into  it,  no  doubt  thanking  his 
friend  for  what  he  imagined  to  be  a  display  of  tact, 
and  Oldmeadow  saw  the  quiet,  firm  look  that  flowed 
over  and  took  possession  of  him.  Miss  Toner  knew, 


ADRIENNE  TONER  93 

of  course,  that  Barney  had  been  having  painful 
emotions;  and  she  probably  knew  that  they  had 
been  caused  by  the  dry,  deep-hearted  Meredithian 
hero.  But  after  the  long  look  she  did  not  speak  to 
him.  She  sat  in  her  pearls  and  whiteness  and  gave 
careful  attention  to  the  music. 

Oldmeadow  accompanied  Meg,  tolerantly,  and  a 
trifle  humorously,  throwing  a  touch  of  mockery  into 
his  part.  Meg's  preference  to-night  seemed  to  be 
for  gardens;  Gardens  of  Sleep;  Gardens  of  Love; 
God's  Gardens.  "What  a  wretch  you  are,  Roger," 
she  said,  when  she  had  finished.  "You  despise  feel- 
ing." 

"I  thought  I  was  wallowing  in  it,"  Oldmeadow 
returned.  "Did  I  stint  you?" 

"No;  you  helped  me  to  wallow.  That's  why 
you're  such  a  wretch.  Always  showing  one  that  one 
is  wallowing  when  one  thinks  one's  soaring.  It's 
your  turn,  now,  Adrienne.  Let's  see  if  he'll  manage 
to  make  fun  of  you." 

"Does  Miss  Toner  sing,  too?  Now  do  you  know, 
Meg,"  said  Oldmeadow,  keeping  up  the  friendly 
banter,  "I'm  sure  she  doesn't  sing  the  sort  of  rubbish 
you  do." 

"I  think  they're  beautiful  songs,"  Mrs.  Chadwick 
murmured  from  her  wool,  "and  I  think  Roger 
played  them  most  beautifully.  Why  should  you  say 
he  is  making  fun  of  you,  Meg?" 

"  Because  he  makes  you  think  something's  beauti 
ful  that  he  thinks  rubbish,  Mummy.  Come  along, 
Adrienne.  You  will,  won't  you?  I  expect  my  voice 
sounds  all  wrong  to  you.  I've  had  no  proper  train- 
ing." 

"It's  a  very  lovely  voice,  Meg,  used  in  a  poor 


94  ADRIENNE  TONER 

cause,"  said  Miss  Toner  smiling.  "And  it  is  badly 
placed.  I  think  I  could  help  you  there.  I've  no 
voice  at  all,  but  I  have  been  taught  how  to  sing.  It 
would  be  more  to  the  point,  though,  if  Mr.  Old- 
meadow  were  to  play  to  us,  for  I  hear  that  he  is  an 
accomplished  musician." 

"I'm  really  anything  but  accomplished,"  said 
Oldmeadow;  "but  I  can  play  accompaniments 
cleverly.  Do  sing  to  us.  I  know  you'll  give  us  some 
thing  worth  accompanying." 

Miss  Toner  rose  and  came  to  the  piano  with  her 
complete  and  unassuming  confidence.  She  turned 
the  pages  of  the  music  piled  there  and  asked  him  if 
he  cared  for  Schubert's  songs.  Yes ;  she  was  a  watch 
wound  to  go  accurately  and  she  could  rely  on  her 
self,  always,  to  the  last  tick.  Even  if  she  knew  — 
and  he  was  sure  she  knew  —  that  he  had  been  un 
dermining  her,  she  would  never  show  a  shadow  or  a 
tremor;  and  she  would  always  know  what  was  the 
best  music.  Only,  as  she  selected  "Litanei"  and 
placed  it  before  him,  he  felt  that  over  him,  also, 
flowed  the  quiet,  firm  look. 

"  Litanei "  was  one  of  his  favourites  in  a  composer 
he  loved,  and,  as  she  sang  there  above  him,  he  found 
the  song  emerging  unharmed  from  her  interpreta 
tion.  It  was  as  she  had  said  —  no  voice  to  speak  of; 
the  dryest,  flattest  little  thread  of  sound;  and  no 
feeling,  either  (what  a  relief  after  Meg!),  except  the 
feeling  for  scrupulous  accuracy.  Yet  her  singing  was 
what  he  found  in  her  to  like  best.  It  was  disciplined ; 
it  accepted  its  own  limits;  it  fulfilled  an  order. 
There  was  no  desecration  of  the  heavenly  song,  for, 
intelligently  after  all,  she  made  no  attempt  upon  its 
heart. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  95 

When  she  had  finished,  she  looked  down  at  him. 
They  were  removed  by  half  the  length  of  the  room 
from  the  fireside  group.  The  lamps  were  behind 
them.  Only  the  candles  set  in  the  piano-rack  il 
lumined  Miss  Toner;  and  while  the  white  roses  over 
her  ears  struck  him  anew  as  foolish,  her  eyes  anew 
struck  him  as  powerful. 

"Thank  you.   That  was  a  pleasure,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  pleasure.  It  was  almost  a  link.  He  had 
found  a  ground  to  meet  her  on.  He  saw  himself  in 
the  future  accompanying  Barney's  wife.  He  need, 
then,  so  seldom  talk  to  her.  But,  alas!  she  stepped 
at  once  from  the  safe  frame  of  art. 

"  If  we  can  rise  from  loss  to  feel  like  that,  if  we 
can  lift  our  sorrows  like  that,  we  need  never  turn  to 
palliatives,  need  we,  Mr.  Oldmeadow?"  she  said. 

Stupidity,  complacency,  or  power,  whatever  it 
was,  it  completely  disenchanted  him.  It  left  him 
also  bereft  of  repartee.  What  he  fell  back  upon,  as 
he  looked  up  at  her  and  then  down  at  the  keys  again, 
was  a  mere  schoolboy  mutter  of  "Come  now!" 

After  all  a  schoolboy  mutter  best  expressed  what 
he  felt.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  having  her 
ministrations  met  with  such  mutters  and  she  did 
not  like  it.  That  was  apparent  to  him  as  she  turned 
away  and  went  back  to  the  sofa  and  Barney.  She 
had  again  tried  him  and  again  found  him  wanting. 

Barney  and  Miss  Toner  left  in  her  motor  next 
morning  shortly  after  breakfast,  and  though  with 
his  friend  Oldmeadow  had  no  further  exchange,  he 
had,  with  Miss  Toner,  a  curious  encounter  that  was, 
he  felt  sure,  a  direct  result  of  her  impressions  of  the 
night  before.  They  met  in  the  dining-room  a  few 


96  ADRIENNE  TONER 

moments  before  breakfast,  and  as  she  entered,  wear 
ing  already  her  motoring  hat,  closely  bound  round 
her  face  with  a  veil,  he  was  aware  that  she  looked,  if 
that  were  possible,  more  composed  than  he  had  ever 
seen  her.  He  felt  sure  that  she  had  waited  for  her 
opportunity,  and  had  followed  him  downstairs, 
knowing  that  she  would  find  him  alone;  and  he 
realized  then  that  she  was  more  composed,  because 
she  had  an  intention  or,  rather,  since  it  was  more 
definite,  a  determination.  Determination  in  her 
involved  no  effort:  it  imparted,  merely,  the  added 
calm  of  an  assured  aim. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and  said  good  morning 
with  the  same  air  of  scrupulous  accuracy  that  she 
had  given  to  the  rendering  of  "Litanei"  and  then, 
standing  before  the  fire,  her  hands  clasped  behind 
her,  her  eyes  raised  to  his,  she  said:  "Mr.  Old- 
meadow,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

It  was  the  gentle  little  voice,  unaltered,  yet  he 
knew  that  he  was  in  for  something  he  would  very 
much  rather  have  avoided ;  something  with  anybody 
else  unimaginable,  but  with  her,  he  saw  it  now,  quite 
inevitable.  Yet  he  tried,  even  at  this  last  moment, 
to  avoid  it  and  said,  adjusting  his  eye-glass  and 
moving  to  the  sideboard :  "  But  not  before  we've  had 
our.  tea,  surely.  Can't  I  get  you  some?  Will  you 
trust  me  to  pour  it  out?" 

"Thanks;  I  take  coffee  —  not  tea,"  said  Miss 
Toner  from  her  place  at  the  fire,  "and  neither  has 
been  brought  in  yet." 

He  had  just  perceived,  to  his  discomfiture,  that 
they  had  not.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  turn 
from  the  ungarnished  sideboard  and  face  her  again. 

"It's  about  Barney,  Mr.  Oldmeadow,"  Miss  To- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  97 

ner  said,  unmoved  by  his  patent  evasion.  "It's  be 
cause  I  know  you  love  Barney  and  care  for  his  happi 
ness.  And  it's  because  I  hope  that  you  and  I  are  to 
be  friends,  and  friendship  can  only  be  built  on  truth. 
Try  to  trust  more;  will  you?  That's  all  I  want  to 
say.  Try  to  trust.  You  will  be  happier  if  you  do  and 
make  other  people  happier." 

Oldmeadow  had  never  experienced  such  an  as 
sault  upon  his  personality,  and  he  met  it  gagged  and 
bound,  for,  assuredly,  this  was  to  be  Barney's  wife. 
A  slow  flush  mounted  to  his  face. 

"I'm  afraid  I  seem  very  strange  and  unconven 
tional  to  you,"  Adrienne  Toner  went  on.  "You've 
lived  in  a  world  where  people  don't  care  enough  for 
each  other  to  say  the  real  things.  They  must  be  felt 
if  they've  to  be  said,  mustn't  they?  Yet  you  do  care 
for  people.  I  have  seen  that,  watching  you  here ;  and 
you  care  for  real  things.  It's  a  crust  of  caution  and 
convention  that  is  about  you.  You  are  afraid  of 
expression.  You  are  afraid  of  feeling.  You  are  afraid 
of  being  taken  in  and  of  wasting  yourself.  Don't  be 
afraid,  Mr.  Oldmeadow.  We  never  lose  ourselves  by 
trusting.  We  never  lose  ourselves  by  giving.  It's  a 
realer  self  that  comes.  And  with  you,  I  see  it  clearly, 
if  you  let  the  crust  grow  thicker,  it  will  shut  life  and 
light  and  joy  away  from  you;  and  when  light  cannot 
visit  our  hearts,  they  wither  within  us.  That  is  your 
danger.  I  want  to  be  your  friend,  so  I  must  say  the 
truth  to  you." 

He  knew,  though  he  had  to  struggle  not  to  laugh, 
that  he  was  very  angry  and  that  he  must  not  show 
anger ;  though  it  would  really  be  better  to  show  that 
than  his  intense  amusement ;  and  it  took  him  a  mo 
ment,  during  which  they  confronted  each  other,  to 


98  ADRIENNE  TONER 

find  wordis ;  dry,  donnish  words;  words  of  caution 
and  convention.  They  were  the  only  ones  he  had 
available  for  the  situation.  "  My  dear  young  lady," 
he  said,  "you  take  too  much  upon  yourself." 

She  was  not  in  the  least  disconcerted.  She  met  his 
eyes  steadily.  "  You  mean  that  I  am  presumptuous, 
Mr.  Oldmeadow?" 

"You  take  too  much  upon  yourself,"  he  repeated. 
"As  you  say,  I  hope  we  may  be  friends." 

"Is  that  really  all,  Mr.  Oldmeadow?"  she  said, 
looking  at  him  with  such  a  depth  of  thoughtfulness 
that  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  make  out  whether 
she  found  him  odious  or  merely  pitiful. 

"Yes;  that's  really  all,"  he  returned. 

The  dining-room  was  very  bright  and  the  little 
blue  figure  before  the  fire  was  very  still.  The  mo 
ment  fixed  itself  deep  in  his  consciousness  with  that 
impression  of  stillness  and  brightness.  It  was  an 
uncomfortable  impression.  Her  little  face,  uplifted 
to  his,  absurd,  yet  not  uncharming,  was,  in  its  still 
force,  almost  ominous. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  was  all  she  said,  and  she  turned  and 
went  forward  to  greet  Mrs.  Chad  wick. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  a  soft  June  day  and  Oldmeadow  was  strolling 
about  Mrs.  Averil's  garden  admiring  her  herbaceous 
borders.  It  was  a  day  that  smelt  of  ripening  straw 
berries,  of  warm  grass  and  roses,  and  the  air  was  full 
of  a  medley  of  bird  voices,  thrushes  and  blackbirds, 
sweet  as  grass  and  strawberries,  and  the  bubbling 
rattle  of  the  chaffinch  as  happy  as  the  sunlight. 

Adrienne  Toner  was  Mrs.  Chadwick  now,  and 
she  and  Eleanor  Chadwick  and  Barney  were  motor 
ing  together  in  the  French  Alps.  Coldbrooks  was 
empty,  and  he  had  come  to  stay  with  Nancy  and  her 
mother. 

They  lived  in  a  small  stone  house  with  a  Jacobean 
front  that  looked,  over  a  stone  wall,  at  Chelford 
Green,  and  had  behind  it  a  delightfully  unexpected 
length  of  lawn  and  orchard  and  kitchen-garden,  all 
enclosed  by  higher  walls  and  presided  over  by  a 
noble  cedar.  Seen  from  the  garden  The  Little  Hou'se 
was  merely  mid-Victorian,  but  the  modern  additions 
were  masked  by  climbing  roses  and  a  great  magnolia- 
tree  opened  its  lemon-scented  cups  at  the  highest 
bedroom  windows.  The  morning-room  was  in  the 
modern  part,  and  from  one  of  its  windows,  presently, 
Mrs.  Averil  emerged,  opening  her  sunshade  as  she 
crossed  the  grass  to  join  her  guest.  She  wore  a  white 
straw  garden  hat,  tipping  over  her  eyes  and  tying, 
behind,  over  her  thick  knot  of  hair,  in  a  manner  that 
always  recalled  to  Oldmeadow  a  lady  out  of  Trol- 
lope.  Her  face  was  pale,  like  Nancy's,  and  her  eyes 
grey;  but  rather  than  blackcaps  and  primroses  she 


ioo  ADR1ENNE  TONER 

suggested  lace  tippets  and  porcelain  tea-sets,  and 
though  it  was  from  her  Nancy  had  her  pretty  trick 
of  closing  her  eyes  when  she  smiled,  Mrs.  Averil's 
smile  was  cogitative  and  impersonal,  and  in  her 
always  temperate  mirth  there  was  an  edge  of  grim- 
ness. 

"Well,  Roger,  I  want  to  hear  what  you  thought 
about  the  wedding,"  she  said.  She  had  not  gone  to 
church  that  morning  with  Nancy  and  it  was,  he 
knew,  because  she  wanted  an  interchange  of  frank 
impressions.  She  had  been  prevented  from  attend 
ing  Miss  Toner's  London  nuptials  by  a  touch  of 
influenza  and,  as  she  now  went  on  to  say,  she  had 
got  little  from  Nancy,  who  had  no  eye  for  pageants 
and  performances.  "Eleanor  was  so  absorbed,"  she 
went  on,  "in  the  fact  that  the  Bishop  had  indigestion 
and  had,  at  her  suggestion,  taken  magnesia  with  his 
breakfast,  that  I  could  not  get  much  else  out  of  her. 
She  seemed  to  have  seen  the  Bishop's  symptoms 
rather  than  Adrienne  and  Barney.  Now  from  you  I 
expect  all  the  relevant  details." 

"Well,  if  you  call  it  a  detail,  Nancy  was  lovely," 
said  Oldmeadow.  "She  looked  like  a  silver-birch  in 
her  white  and  green." 

"And  pearls,"  said  Mrs.  Averil.  "You  noticed,  of 
course,  the  necklaces  Adrienne  gave  them ;  quite  the 
gift  of  a  princess,  yet  so  innocent  and  unobtrusive 
looking,  too.  She  has  great  taste  in  such  matters. 
Did  she  look  well?  Eleanor  did  say  that  she,  like  the 
Bishop,  was  very  pale." 

"She  was  pale;  but  not  a  bit  nervous.  She  rather 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  married  every  day  of  her 
life.  Nothing  ever  puts  her  out,  you  know.  She  was 
very  grave  and  benign ;  but  she  wasn't  an  imposing 


ADRIENNE  TONER  101 

bride  and  the  wreath  of  orange-blossoms  aged  her. 
Nancy  and  Meg  and  Barbara  and  the  Lumley  girl 
aged  her,  too.  She  must  be  older  than  Barney." 

"Yes;  she  is.  A  year  older.  But  she's  the  sort  of 
woman  who  will  wear,"  said  Mrs.  Averil,  pausing 
before  a  bed  of  rose-trees  to  snip  off  a  fading  flower. 
"She'll  not  look  very  differently  at  fifty,  you  know; 
and  her  hair  is  the  sort  that  may  never  turn  grey.  I 
can  see  her  at  seventy  with  those  big  golden  braids 
and  all  her  teeth.  There's  something  very  indestruc 
tible  about  her.  Like  a  doll  made  of  white  leather 
compared  to  one  made  of  porcelain.  She'll  last  and 
last,"  said  Mrs.  Averil.  "She'll  outlast  us  all.  Bar 
ney  was  radiant,  of  course." 

"Yes.  But  he  was  nervous ;  like  a  little  boy  fright 
ened  by  the  splendour  of  his  Christmas-tree.  He 
looked  as  though  he  were  arm  in  arm  with  the 
Christmas-tree  itself  as  he  came  down  the  nave.  A 
rather  dumpy  little  Christmas-tree,  but  exquisitely 
lighted  and  garnished." 

"Well,  he  ought  to  be  radiant,"  Mrs.  Averil  ob 
served.  "With  all  that  money,  it's  an  extremely 
good  match  for  him.  The  fact  of  her  being  nobody  in 
particular  makes  no  difference,  really,  since  she's  an 
American.  And  she  has,  I  gather,  no  tiresome  rela 
tions  to  come  bothering." 

"She's  very  unencumbered,  certainly.  There's 
something  altogether  very  solitary  about  her," 
Oldmeadow  agreed,  watching  Mrs.  Averil  snip  off 
the  withered  roses.  "I  felt  that  even  as  she  came 
down  the  nave  on  Barney's  arm.  It's  not  a  bit  about 
the  money  he's  radiant,"  he  added. 

"Oh,  I  know.  Of  course  not.  That  was  only  my 
own  gross  satisfaction  expressing  itself.  He's  as  in 


102  ADRIENNE  TONER 

love  as  it's  possible  to  be.  And  with  every  good  rea 
son." 

"You  took  to  her  as  much  as  they  all  did,  then?" 

"That  would  be  rather  difficult,  wouldn't  it?  And 
Barney's  reasons  would  hardly  be  those  of  a  dry  old 
aunt.  She  was  very  nice  and  kind  to  Nancy  and 
me  and  she's  evidently  going  to  do  everything  for 
them.  Barbara's  already,  you  know,  been  sent  to 
that  admirable  school  that  was  too  expensive  for 
Eleanor;  riding  and  singing  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
And  Meg's  been  given  a  perfect  trousseau  of  fine 
clothes  for  her  London  season.  Naturally  I  don't  feel 
very  critically  towards  her." 

"Don't  you?  Well,  if  she  weren't  a  princess  dis 
tributing  largess,  wouldn't  you?  After  all,  she's  not 
given  Nancy  a  trousseau.  So  why  be  mute  with  an 
old  friend?" 

"Ah,  but  she's  given  her  the  pearls,"  said  Mrs. 
Averil.  "Nancy  couldn't  but  accept  a  bridesmaid's 
gift.  And  she  would  give  her  a  trousseau  if  she 
wanted  it  and  would  take  it.  However,  I'll  own, 
though  decency  should  keep  me  mute,  that  I  should 
find  myself  a  little  bored  if  I  had  to  see  too  much  of 
her.  I'm  an  everyday  person  and  I  like  to  talk  about 
everyday  things." 

"I  can  hear  her  asking  you,  in  answer  to  that,  if 
there  is  anything  more  everyday  than  the  human 
soul.  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  you  aux  prises  with 
her,"  Oldmeadow  remarked.  "Did  she  come  down 
here?  Did  she  like  your  drawing-room  and  gar 
den?" 

Mrs.  Averil's  drawing-room  and  garden  lay  very 
near  her  heart.  Eleanor  Chadwick  sometimes  ac 
cused  her  of  caring  more  about  her  china  and  her 


ADRIENNE  TONER  103 

roses  than  about  anything  else  in  the  world  except 
Nancy. 

"  I  don't  think  she  saw  them;  not  what  I  call  see," 
Mrs.  Averil  now  said.  "Oh,  yes;  she  came  several 
times  and  recognized,  very  appreciatively,  the 
periods  of  my  Queen  Anne  furniture  and  my  Lowe- 
stoft.  Beyond  their  period  I  don't  think  she  went. 
She  said  the  garden  was  old-world,"  Mrs.  Averil 
added,  looking  about  her  and  twirling  her  parasol  on 
her  shoulder. 

"She  would,"  Oldmeadow  agreed.  "That's  just 
what  she  would  call  it.  And  she'd  call  you  a  true, 
deep-hearted  woman  and  Nancy  a  gifted  girl.  How 
do  she  and  Nancy  hit  it  off?  It's  that  I  want  most  of 
all  to  hear  about." 

"They  haven't  much  in  common,  have  they?" 
said  Mrs.  Averil.  "She's  never  hunted  and  doesn't, 
I  imagine,  know  a  wren  from  a  hedge-sparrow.  She 
does  know  a  skylark  when  she  hears  one,  for  she  said 
'Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit'  while  one  was  singing. 
But  I  felt,  somehow,  it  was  like  the  Queen  Anne  and 
the  Lowestoft  —  a  question  of  the  label." 

Oldmeadow  at  this  began  to  laugh  with  an  open 
and  indulged  mirth.  He  and  Mrs.  Averil,  at  all 
events,  saw  eye  to  eye.  "If  you'd  tie  the  correct 
label  to  the  hedge-sparrow  she'd  know  that,  too," 
he  said.  "  Poor  girl.  The  trouble  with  her  isn't  that 
she  doesn't  know  the  birds,  but  that  she  wouldn't 
know  the  poets,  either,  without  their  labels.  It's  a 
mind  made  up  of  labels.  No;  I  don't  think  it  likely 
that  Nancy,  who  hasn't  a  label  about  her,  will  get 
much  out  of  her  —  beyond  necklaces." 

"  I  wish  Nancy  had  a  few  labels,"  said  Mrs.  Averil. 
"  I  wish  she  could  have  travelled  and  studied  as  Miss 


104  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Toner  —  Adrienne  that  is  —  has  done.  She  is  such 
a  little  ignoramus.  Adrienne  may  bore  you  and  me, 
but  Nancy  will  never  interest  anyone  —  except  you 
and  me." 

It  was  always  amusing  to  Oldmeadow,  if  a  little 
sardonically  so,  to  note  that  any  conception  of  him 
self  as  a  possible  suitor  for  Nancy  had  never  entered 
Mrs.  Averil's  mind.  As  a  friend  he  was  everything 
a  mother  could  desire ;  as  a  match  for  Nancy  almost 
unimaginable.  Well,  he  could  not  give  a  wife  even 
one  hunter  and  he  never  had  had  any  intention  of 
falling  in  love  with  his  dear  nymph ;  yet  that  other 
people  might  not  do  so  was  a  suggestion  he  repudi 
ated  with  warmth. 

"Oh;  in  love,  yes,"  Mrs.  Averil  agreed.  "I  don't 
deny  that  she's  very  loveable  and  I  hope  she  may 
marry  well.  But  that's  not  the  same  thing  as  being 
interesting,  is  it?  A  man  may  be  in  love  with  a 
woman  who  doesn't  interest  him." 

"I  dispute  that  statement." 

"I'm  sure  dear  Eleanor  never  interested  her  hus 
band  —  devoted  to  the  day  of  his  death  as  he  was. 
There's  something  in  my  idea.  To  be  interesting 
one  must  offer  something  new.  If  Nancy  had  been 
interesting  to  Barney  she  would  now,  I  think,  have 
been  in  Adrienne's  place.  Not  that  it  would  have 
been  a  marriage  to  be  desired  for  either  of  them." 

So  he  and  Mrs.  Averil  had  been  thinking  the  same 
thoughts. 

"And  you  contend  that  if  Nancy  had  been  to 
China  and  read  Goethe  and  Dante  in  the  originals 
he'd  have  been  interested?  I  think  he  was  quite 
sufficiently  interested  and  that  if  Miss  Toner  hadn't 
come  barging  into  our  lives  he'd  have  known  he  was 
in  love." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  105 

"Going  to  China  is  a  figure  of  speech  and  stands 
for  all  the  things  she  hasn't  got  and  doesn't  know. 
My  poor  little  Nancy.  All  the  same,  she  isn't  a  bore  !" 
said  Mrs.  Averil  with  as  near  an  approach  to  acerbity 
as  she  could  show. 

"  No;  she  isn't  a  bore.  The  things  she  knows  have 
to  be  found  out,  by  degrees,  through  living  with  her. 
Barney  hasn't  been  to  China,  either,  so,  accord 
ing  to  your  theory,  Nancy  didn't  find  him  inter 
esting." 

At  this  Mrs.  Averil's  eyes  met  his  and,  after  a 
moment  of  contemplation,  they  yielded  up  to  him 
the  secret  they  saw  to  be  shared.  "If  only  it  were 
the  same  for  women !  But  they  don't  need  the  new. 
She's  young.  She'll  get  over  it.  I  don't  believe  in 
broken  hearts.  All  the  same,"  Mrs.  Averil  stopped 
in  their  walk,  ostensibly  to  examine  the  growth  of  a 
fine  pink  lupin,  "it  hasn't  endeared  Adrienne  to  me. 
I'm  too  terre-d-terre,  about  that,  too,  not  to  feel  vex 
ation,  on  Nancy's  account.  And  what  I'm  afraid  of 
is  that  she  knows  she's  not  endeared  to  me.  That 
she  guesses.  She's  a  bore ;  but  she's  not  a  bit  stupid, 
you  know." 

"You  don't  think  she's  spiteful?"  Oldmeadow 
suggested  after  a  moment,  while  Mrs.  Averil  still 
examined  her  lupin. 

"Dear  me,  no!  I  wish  she  could  be!  It's  that 
smooth  surface  of  hers  that's  so  tiresome.  She's  not 
spiteful.  But  she's  human.  She'll  want  to  keep 
Barney  away  and  Nancy  will  be  hurt." 

"Want  to  keep  him  away  when  she's  got  him  so 
completely?" 

"Something  of  that  sort.  I  felt  it  once  or  twice." 

"My  first  instinct  about  her  was  right,  then,"  said 


io6  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Oldmeadow.    "She's  a  bore  and  an  interloper,  and 
she'll  spoil  things." 

"Oh,  perhaps  not.  She'll  mend  some  things. 
Have  you  heard  about  Captain  Hay  ward?" 

"Do  you  mean  that  stupid,  big,  tawny  fellow? 
What  about  him?" 

"You  may  well  ask.  I've  been  spoken  to  about 
him  and  Meg  by  more  than  one  person.  They  are 
making  themselves  conspicuous,  and  it's  been  going 
on  for  some  time." 

"You  don't  mean  that  Meg's  in  love  with  him?" 

"  He's  in  love  with  her,  at  all  events,  and,  as  you 
know,  he's  a  married  man.  I  questioned  Nancy,  who 
was  with  Meg  for  a  few  weeks  in  London,  and  she 
owns  that  Meg's  unhappy." 

"And  they're  seeing  each  other  in  London  now?" 
Oldmeadow  was  deeply  discomposed. 

"No.  He's  away  just  now.  And  Meg  is  going  to 
meet  the  bridal  party  in  Paris  at  the  end  of  July. 
Nancy  feels  that  when  Meg  gets  back  under  Adri- 
enne's  influence  there'll  be  nothing  to  fear." 

"We  depend  on  her,  then,  so  much,  already,"  he 
murmured.  He  was  reviewing,  hastily,  his  last  im 
pressions  of  Meg  and  they  were  not  reassuring.  The 
only  thing  that  was  reassuring  was  to  reflect  on  his 
impressions  of  Adrienne.  "Grandma's  parlour " 
returned  to  him  with  its  assurance  of  deep  security. 
Above  everything  else  Adrienne  was  respectable. 

"Yes.  That's  just  it,"  Mrs.  Averil  agreed.  "We 
depend  on  her.  And  I  feel  we're  going  to  depend 
more  and  more.  She's  the  sort  of  person  who  mends 
things.  So  we  mustn't  think  of  what  she  spoils." 

What  Adrienne  Toner  had  spoiled  was,  however, 
to  be  made  very  plain  next  morning  both  to  Nancy's 


ADRIENNE  TONER  107 

old  friend  and  to  her  mother.  Beside  her  plate  at 
breakfast  was  a  letter  addressed  in  Barney's  evident 
hand,  a  letter  in  a  narrow  envelope  stamped  with  the 
name  of  a  French  hotel  and  showing,  over  the  ad 
dress,  an  engraving  of  peaks  against  the  sky.  Nancy 
met  the  occasion  with  perfect  readiness,  saying  as  she 
looked  at  the  letter,  waiting  to  open  it  till  she  had 
made  the  tea  —  Nancy  always  made  the  tea  in  the 
morning  while  her  mother  sat  behind  the  bacon  and 
eggs  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  -  "  How  nice; 
from  Barney.  Now  we  shall  have  news  of  them." 

Nothing  less  like  an  Ariane  could  be  imagined 
than  Nancy  as  she  stood  there  in  her  pink  dress 
above  the  pink,  white  and  gold  tea-cups.  One  might 
have  supposed  from  her  demeanour  that  a  letter 
from  Barney  was  but  a  happy  incident  in  a  happy 
day.  But,  when  she  dropped  into  her  chair  and  read, 
it  was  evident  that  she  was  not  prepared  for  what 
she  found.  She  read  steadily,  in  silence,  while  Old- 
meadow  cut  bread  at  the  sideboard  and  Mrs.  Averil 
distributed  her  viands,  and,  when  the  last  page  was 
reached,  they  both  could  not  fail  to  see  that  Nancy 
was  blushing,  blushing  so  deeply  that,  as  she  thus 
felt  herself  betray  her  emotion,  tears  came  thickly 
into  her  downcast  eyes. 

"I'll  have  my  tea  now,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Averil. 
"Will  you  wait  a  little  longer,  Roger?"  She  tided 
Nancy  over. 

But  Nancy  was  soon  afloat.  "The  letter  is  for  us 
all,"  she  said.  "Do  read  it  aloud,  Roger,  while  I 
have  my  breakfast." 

Barney's  letters,  in  the  past,  had,  probably,  al 
ways  been  shared  and  Nancy  was  evidently  deter 
mined  that  her  own  discomposure  was  not  to  intro- 


io8  ADRIENNE  TONER 

duce  a  new  precedent.    Oldmeadow  took  up  the 
sheets  and  read. 

"DEAREST  NANCY,  —  How  I  wish  you  were  with 
us  up  here.  It's  the  most  fantastically  lovely  place. 
One  feels  as  if  one  could  sail  off  into  it.  I  dug  up 
some  roots  of  saxifrage  for  your  wall  yesterday,  such 
pretty  pink  stuff.  It's  gone  off  in  a  box  wrapped  in 
damp  moss  and  I  hope  will  reach  you  safely.  A  hor 
rid,  vandal  thing  to  do;  but  for  you  and  Aunt  Mon 
ica  I  felt  it  justified,  and  there  are  such  masses  of  it. 
I  saw  a  snow-bunting  yesterday,  much  higher  up 
than  the  saxifrage;  such  a  jolly,  composed  little 
fellow  on  a  field  of  snow.  The  birds  would  drive  you 
absolutely  mad,  except  that  you're  such  a  sensible 
young  person  you'd  no  doubt  keep  your  head  even 
when  you  saw  a  pair  of  golden  eagles,  as  we  did, 
floating  over  a  ravine.  I  walked  around  the  Lac 
d'Annecy  this  morning,  before  breakfast,  and  did 
wish  you  were  with  me.  I  thought  of  our  bird-walks 
at  dawn  last  summer.  There  were  two  or  three  dar 
ling  warblers  singing,  kinds  we  haven't  got  at  home; 
and  black  redstarts  and  a  peregrine  falcon  high  in 
the  air.  I  could  write  all  day  if  I'd  the  time,  about 
the  birds  and  flowers.  You  remember  Adrienne  tell 
ing  us  that  afternoon  when  she  first  came  to  Cold- 
brooks  about  the  flowers.  But  I  mustn't  go  on  now. 
We're  stopping  for  tea  in  a  little  valley  among  the 
mountains  with  flowers  thick  all  around  us  and  I've 
only  time  to  give  our  news  to  you  and  Aunt  Monica 
and  to  send  our  love.  Mother  is  extremely  fit  and 
jolly,  though  rather  scared  at  the  hairpin  curves; 
Adrienne  has  to  hold  her  hand.  I'm  too  happy  for 
words  and  feel  as  if  I'd  grown  wings.  How  is  Chum- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  109 

mie's  foot?  Did  the  liniment  help?  Those  traps  are 
beastly  things.  I  feel  just  as  you  do  about  the  rab 
bits.  Adrienne  reads  aloud  to  us  in  the  evenings;  a 
man  called  Claudel;  awfully  stiff  French  to  follow 
but  rather  beautiful.  I  think  you'd  like  him.  Not  a 
bit  like  Racine!  Best  love  to  you  and  Aunt  Monica. 
Here's  Adrienne,  who  wants  to  have  her  say." 

Had  it  been  written  in  compunction  for  Ariane 
aux  bords  laissee  ?  or,  rather,  in  a  happy  reversion  to 
sheer  spontaneity,  a  turning,  without  any  self-con 
sciousness,  to  the  comrade  of  the  bird-walks  who 
would,  after  all,  best  feel  with  him  about  snow- 
buntings  and  redstarts?  Oldmeadow  paused  for  the 
surmise,  not  looking  up,  before  he  went  on  from 
Barney's  neat,  firm  script  to  his  wife's  large,  clear 
clumsy  hand. 

"DEAREST  NANCY,"  ran  the  postscript,  and  it 
had  been  at  the  postscript,  Oldmeadow  now  could 
gauge,  that  Nancy  had  first  found  herself  unpre 
pared.  "I,  too,  am  thinking  of  you,  with  Barney. 
It  is  a  great  joy  to  feel  that  where,  he  says,  I've 
given  him  golden  eagles  and  snow-buntings  he's 
given  me  —  among  so  many  other  dear,  wonderful 
people  —  a  Nancy.  I  get  the  best  of  the  bargain, 
don't  I?  I  can't  see  much  of  the  birds  for  looking  at 
the  peaks  —  my  peaks ,  so  familiar  yet,  always,  so 
new  again.  'Stern  daughters  of  the  voice  of  God' 
that  they  are.  Radiantly  white  against  a  cloudless 
sky  we  find  them  to-day.  Barney's  profile  is  beautiful 
against  them  —  but  his  nose  is  badly  sun-burned ! 
All  our  noses  are  sun- burned !  That's  what  one  pays 
for  flying  among  the  Alps. 

"Mother  Nell  —  we've  decided  that  that's  what 


i  io  ADRIENNE  TONER 

I'm  to  call  her  —  looks  ten  years  younger  all  the 
same,  as  I  knew  she  would.  We  talk  of  you  all  so 
often  —  of  you  and  Meg  and  Palgrave  and  Barbara, 
and  half  a  dozen  times  a  day  Barney  wishes  that  one 
or  the  other  of  you  were  with  us  to  see  this  or  that. 
It's  specially  you  for  the  birds  I  notice.  You  must 
take  me  for  some  bird-walks  at  dawn  some  day  and 
teach  me  to  know  all  your  lovely  English  songsters. 
.  .  .  Dear  little  Cousin-Sister,  I  send  you  my  love 
with  his  and,  with  him,  hold  you  warmly  in  my 
heart.  Will  'Aunt  Monica'  accept  my  affectionate 
and  admiring  homages? 

"Yours  ever 

"ADRIENNE" 

Oldmeadow  had  not  expected  that  she  could 
write  such  a  human  letter;  yet  it  explained  Nancy's 
blush.  Barney's  spontaneous  affection  she  could 
have  faced,  but  she  had  not  been  able  to  face  his 
wife's  determined  tenderness.  Adrienne  had  meant 
it  well,  no  doubt  —  Oldmeadow  gazed  on  after  he 
had  finished,  but  she  had  no  business  to  mean  so 
well,  no  business  to  thrust  herself,  in  this  commu 
nity  of  intimacy,  into  what  was  Barney's  place  alone. 
There  was  more  in  it,  he  knew,  with  Meg  and  Mrs. 
Averil  to  help  him,  than  the  quite  successful  playful 
ness.  She  was  to  be  more  intimate  than  Barney, 
that  was  what  it  came  to ;  more,  much  more  tender 
if  Barney  was  to  be  allowed  intimacy  and  tender 
ness.  That  was  really  what  she  intended  Nancy  to 
see,  and  that  Barney  had  no  place  at  all  where  she, 
Adrienne,  did  not  also  belong. 

"Very  sweet;  very  sweet  and  pretty,"  Mrs.  Aver- 
il's  voice  broke  in,  and  he  realized  that  he  had  al- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  in 

lowed  himself  to  drop  into  a  grim  and  tactless 
reverie;  "I  didn't  know  she  had  such  a  sense  of 
humour.  Sun-burned  noses  and  '  Stern  daughters  of 
the  voice  of  God.'  Well  done.  I  didn't  think  Adri- 
enne  would  ever  look  as  low  as  noses.  They  must  be 
having  a  delightful  tour.  I  know  black  redstarts. 
There  was  one  that  used  to  wake  me  every  morning 
at  four,  one  summer,  in  Normandy,  with  the  most 
foolish,  creaking  song;  just  outside  my  window. 
Give  Barney  my  love  when  you  write  and  return  my 
niece's  affectionate  and  admiring  homages.  Mother 
Nell.  I  shouldn't  care  to  be  called  Mother  Nell 
somehow." 

So  Mrs.  Averil's  vexation  expressed  itself  and  so 
she  floated  Nancy  along.  But  Nancy,  long  since, 
had  pulled  herself  together  and  was  able  to  look  at 
Oldmeadow,  while  her  lashes  closed  together  in  her 
own  smile,  and  to  say  that  she'd  almost  be  willing  to 
lose  her  nose  for  the  sake  of  hearing  the  new  warb 
lers.  Mrs.  Averil  opened  her  "Times"  and  over 
marmalade  Nancy  and  Oldmeadow  planned  the  trip 
that  they  would  take  some  day,  when  their  ship 
came  in,  the  three  of  them ,  a  bird-trip  to  the  French 
Alps. 


CHAPTER  XII 

OLDMEADOW  sat  beside  Adrienne  Chadwick  and 
knew  that  from  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  he 
talked  to  Mrs.  Aldesey,  Barney's  eyes  were  on  them, 
though  he  tried  to  keep  them  off.  It  was  the  first 
dinner-party  the  young  couple  had  given  since  they 
had  come  up  to  town,  for  though  they  were  estab 
lished  at  Coldbrooks  in  the  communal  family  life 
Adrienne  seemed  to  find  to  her  taste,  and  though 
Barney  had  at  once  immersed  himself  in  country 
pursuits,  they  had  taken  and  furnished  this  large 
house  in  Connaught  Square  and  it  was,  apparently, 
settled  that  the  winter  months  were  to  be  spent  in 
London.  How  that  was  to  be  combined  with  farm 
ing  at  Coldbrooks,  or  whether  Barney  intended  to 
take  a  header  into  politics  and  felt  a  London  house, 
big  enough  for  entertaining,  part  of  the  programme, 
Oldmeadow  hadn't  an  idea,  and  for  the  rather  sinis 
ter  reason  that  he  had  hardly  laid  his  eyes  on  Barney 
since  his  return  from  his  wedding- journey.  Even 
though  asked  to  tea  once  or  twice,  while,  established 
in  an  hotel,  they  were  finding  and  furnishing  the 
house,  he  had  never  found  them  alone  and  either 
Barney  had  made  no  opportunity,  or  his  wife  had 
seen  to  it  that  none  should  be  made,  for  having  a 
tete-d-tete  with  his  old  friend. 

Oldmeadow  could  not  associate  Barney  with  am 
bitions,  either  social  or  political,  nor,  he  was  bound 
to  say,  as  he  looked  round  the  dinner-table,  where 
Adrienne  sat  at  one  end  with  Lord  Lumley  and  Bar 
ney  at  the  other  with  Lady  Lumley,  could  one  infer 


ADRIENNE  TONER  113 

from  its  disparate  and  irrelevant  elements  any  such 
ambitions  in  Adrienne.  He  had  taken  Mrs.  Aldesey 
down  and  had  felt  her  at  moments  to  be  almost  too 
resourceful,  her  air  of  graceful  skill  in  keeping  the 
ball  rolling  seeming  too  much  to  emphasize  its  ten 
dency  to  drop.  Without  Mrs.  Aldesey,  without 
Meg  —  vividly  engaged  at  one  corner  with  a  fair 
young  American  —  without  himself,  for  he  had 
aided  and  abetted  Lydia  to  the  best  of  his  ability, 
the  dinner  would  have  been  a  dull  one  and  he  was 
not  sure  that  even  their  enterprise  had  redeemed  it. 
Adrienne  had  not  any  air  of  fearing  dullness  or  of 
being  in  need  of  assistance.  Oldmeadow  saw  that 
the  blue  ribbon  was  frequently  unrolled  and  that,  as 
always,  it  made  a  silence  in  which  it  could  be  watched. 
Lord  Lumley,  his  handsome,  official  head  bent  in  an 
attitude  of  chivalrous  devotion,  watched  earnestly, 
and  the  fair  young  American  paused  in  the  midst  of 
whatever  he  might  be  saying  to  Meg  to  take  almost 
reverent  note;  but  Oldmeadow  fancied  more  than 
once  that  he  caught  startled  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  es 
pecially  when  there  emerged  a  lustrous  loop  of 
quotation  :  - 

"One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break,  — " 

The  silence  for  that  had  been  so  general  that  even 
Barney,  far  away,  and  protected  by  Mrs.  Aldesey, 
was  aware  of  it. 

"How  wonderfully  he  wears,  doesn't  he,  dear  old 
Browning,"  said  Mrs.  Aldesey,  and  in  the  glance 
that  Barney  cast  upon  her  was  an  oddly  mingled 
gratitude  and  worry.  The  fair  young  American,  he 
was  very  fair  and  had  clear,  charming  eyes,  finished 


114  ADRIENNE  TONER 

the  verse  in  a  low  voice  to  Meg  and  Meg  looked  at 
him  affectionately  the  while.  He  was  evidently  one 
of  Adrienne's  appurtenances. 

It  was  a  dull  dinner.  Pretty,  festive  Mrs.  Pope 
and  young  Mr.  Haviland,  reputed  to  be  a  wit  and 
one  of  Meg's  young  men  as  Mrs.  Pope  was  one  of 
Barney's  young  women,  would  not  with  any  eager 
ness  again  attend  a  board  where  the  hostess  quoted 
Browning  and  didn't  know  better  than  to  send  you 
down,  the  first  with  a  stern  young  socialist  who  sat 
silent  for  the  most  part  and  frowned  when  addressed, 
and  the  second  with  a  jocular,  middle-aged  lady 
from  California,  the  mother,  Oldmeadow  gathered, 
of  the  clear-eyed  youth,  from  whose  ample  bosom 
Mr.  Haviland 's  subtle  arrows  glanced  aside  leaving 
him  helplessly  exposed  to  the  stout  bludgeonings  of 
her  humour.  Adrienne  paused  once  or  twice  in  her 
conversation  to  smile  approval  upon  her  compatriot 
and  to  draw  Lord  Lumley's  attention  to  her  special 
brand  of  merriment,  good  Lord  Lumley  adjusting 
his  glasses  obediently  to  take  it  in. 

And  now  they  were  all  assembled  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Like  everything  about  Adrienne,  it  was  sim 
ple  and  rather  splendid.  Barney  had  wisely  kept  his 
modernities  for  his  own  study  and  it  was  a  pity, 
Oldmeadow  reflected,  that  Adrienne  had  not  kept 
for  her  own  boudoir  the  large  portrait  of  herself  that 
hung  over  the  mantelpiece,  since  it  was  a  note  more 
irrelevant  than  any  Post  Impressionist  could  have 
been  and  cast  a  shade  of  surmise  over  the  taste  dis 
played  in  the  Chippendale  furniture  and  the  Chinese 
screens. 

"Rather  sweet,  isn't  it;  pastoral  and  girlish,  you 
know,"  Barney  had  suggested  tentatively  as  Mrs. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  115 

Aldesey  had  placed  herself  before  it.  "  Done  in  Paris 
a  good  many  years  ago;  the  man  was  very  much  the 
fashion  then.  Adrienne  was  only  sixteen.  It's  an 
extraordinarily  perfect  likeness  still,  isn't  it?" 

To  which  Mrs.  Aldesey,  all  old  lace  and  exquisite 
evasion,  had  murmured,  her  lorgnette  uplifted: 
"Quite  dear  and  ingenuous.  Such  a  relief  after  your 
arid  Cubists.  What  would  they  make  of  Mrs.  Bar 
ney  en  bergere,  I'd  like  to  know?  A  jumble  of  pack 
ing-cases  with  something  twisted  in  a  corner  to 
signify  a  bleat." 

For  the  picture,  painted  with  glib  assurance  and 
abounding  in  pink  and  azure,  portrayed  Adrienne 
dressed  as  a  shepherdess  and  carrying  a  flower- 
wreathed  crook. 

Adrienne,  to-night  at  all  events,  was  looking  very 
unlike  the  shepherdess,  but  that  might  be  because  of 
the  approaches  of  her  maternity.  Mrs.  Chadwick, 
when  he  had  last  been  at  Coldbrooks,  had  told  him 
that  the  baby  was  expected  in  May  and  that  Adri 
enne  was  wonderful  about  it,  dedicating  herself  to 
its  perfection  in  thought  and  deed  with  every  con 
scious  hour. 

"  If  only  I'd  thought  about  my  babies  before  they 
came  like  that,  who  knows  what  they  might  have 
turned  out!"  she  had  surmised.  "But  I  was  very 
silly,  I'm  afraid,  and  the  only  thing  I  really  did  think 
of  was  how  I  should  dress  them.  I've  always  loved 
butcher's-blue  linen  for  children  and  I  must  say  that 
mine  did  look  very  nice  in  it.  For  everyday,  you 
know." 

Oldmeadow  found  it  extremely  difficult  to  think 
of  Adrienne  as  a  mother;  it  was  much  easier  to  think 
of  her  as  a  shepherdess.  Such  solidities  of  experience 


n6  ADRIENNE  TONER 

gave  her  even  a  certain  pathos  in  his  eyes,  though 
he  was  in  no  whit  dislodged  from  his  hostility 
to  her.  She  was  as  mild,  as  satisfied,  apparently, 
with  herself  and  with  existence,  as  ever,  yet  her  eyes 
and  lips  expressed  fatigue  and  a  purely  physical  sad 
ness  that  was  uncharacteristic,  and  it  was  unchar 
acteristic  that  she  should  be  rather  thickly  pow 
dered. 

They  had  not  really  met  since  the  morning  of  her 
adjuration  to  him  at  Coldbrooks  and  he  wondered  if 
she  remembered  that  little  scene  as  vividly  as  he 
did.  She  would  be  very  magnanimous  did  she  not 
remember  it  unpleasantly ;  and  he  could  imagine  her 
as  very  magnanimous;  yet  from  the  fact  that  she 
had  kept  Barney  from  him  he  could  not  believe  that 
she  was  feeling  magnanimously. 

She  watched  Barney  and  Mrs.  Aldesey  now,  as 
they  stood  before  her  portrait,  and  he  fancied  that 
the  sadness  in  her  eyes,  whatever  might  be  its  cause, 
deepened  a  little.  When  she  turned  them  on  him  it 
was  with  an  effect  of  being  patiently  ready  for  him. 
Perhaps,  really,  she  had  been  more  patient  than 
pleased  all  evening. 

"So  you  are  settled  here  for  the  winter? "  he  said. 
"Have  you  and  Barney  any  plans?  I've  hardly  seen 
anything  of  him  of  late." 

"We  have  been  so  very,  very  busy,  you  know," 
said  Adrienne,  as  if  quite  accepting  his  right  to  an 
explanation. 

She  was  dressed  in  pale  blue  and  wore,  with  her 
pearl  necklace,  a  little  wreath  of  pearls  in  her  hair. 
In  her  hands  she  turned,  as  they  talked,  a  small 
eighteenth-century  fan  painted  in  pink  and  grey 
and  blue,  and  he  was  aware,  as  he  had  been  at  Cold- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  117 

brooks,  of  those  slow  and  rather  fumbling  move 
ments. 

"We  couldn't  well  ask  friends,"  she  went  on, 
"even  the  dearest,  to  come  and  sit  on  rolls  of  carpet 
with  us  while  we  drank  our  tea,  could  we?  We've 
kept  our  squalor  for  the  family  circle.  Meg's  been 
with  us;  so  dear  and  helpful;  but  only  Meg  and  a 
flying  visit  once  or  twice  from  Mother  Nell.  Nancy 
couldn't  come.  But  nothing,  it  seems,  will  tear 
Nancy  from  hunting.  I  feel  that  strange  and  rather 
sad;  the  absorption  of  a  fine  young  life  in  such  primi- 
tiveness." 

"Oh,  well;  it's  not  her  only  interest,  you  know," 
said  Oldmeadow,  very  determined  not  to  allow  him 
self  vexation.  "Nancy  is  a  creature  of  such  deep 
country  roots.  Not  the  kind  that  grow  in  London." 

"I  know,"  said  Adrienne.  "And  it  is  just  those 
roots  that  I  want  to  prevent  my  Barney's  growing. 
Roots  like  that  tie  people  to  routine;  convention; 
acceptance.  I  want  Barney  to  find  a  wider,  freer 
life.  I  hope  he  will  go  into  politics.  If  we  have  left 
Coldbrooks  and  the  dear  people  there  for  these 
winter  months  it's  because  I  feel  he  will  be  better 
able  to  form  opinions  here  than  in  the  country.  I 
saw  quite  well,  there,  that  people  didn't  form  opin 
ions;  only  accepted  traditions.  I  want  Barney  to  be 
free  of  tradition  and  to  form  opinions  for  himself. 
He  has  none  now,"  she  smiled. 

She  had  been  clear  before,  and  secure;  but  he  felt 
now  the  added  weight  of  her  matronly  authority. 
He  felt,  too,  that,  while  ready  for  him  and,  perhaps, 
benevolently  disposed,  she  was  far  more  indifferent 
to  his  impressions  than  she  had  been  at  Coldbrooks. 
She  had  possessed  Barney  before;  but  how  much 


n8  ADRIENNE  TONER 

more  deeply  she  possessed  him  now  and  how  much 
more  definitely  she  saw  what  she  intended  to  do  with 
him. 

"You  must  equip  him  with  your  opinions,"  said 
Oldmeadow,  and  his  voice  was  a  good  match  for  hers 
in  benevolence.  "I  know  that  you  have  so  many 
well-formed  ones." 

'*Oh,  no;  never  that,"  said  Adrienne.  "That's 
how  country  vegetables  are  grown;  first  in  frames 
and  then  in  plots;  all  guided  and  controlled.  He 
must  find  his  own  opinions;  quite  for  himself;  quite 
freely  of  influence.  That  is  the  rock  upon  which 
Democracy  is  founded.  Nothing  is  more  arresting 
to  development  than  living  by  other  people's  opin 
ions." 

"But  we  must  get  our  opinions  from  somebody 
and  somewhere.  The  danger  of  democracy  is  that 
we  don't  grow  them  at  all;  merely  catch  them,  like 
influenza,  from  a  mob.  Not  that  I  disbelieve  in  de 
mocracy." 

"Don't  you,  Mr.  Oldmeadow?"  She  turned  her 
little  fan  and  smiled  on  him.  "  You  believe  in  liberty, 
equality,  fraternity?  That  surprises  me." 

"Democracy  isn't  incompatible  with  recognizing 
that  other  people  are  wiser  than  oneself  and  letting 
them  guide  us;  quite  the  contrary.  Why  surprised? 
Have  I  seemed  so  autocratic?" 

"It  would  surprise  me  very  much  to  learn  that 
you  believed  in  equality,  to  start  with  that  alone"; 
Adrienne  smiled  on. 

"Well,  I  own  that  I  don't  believe  in  people  who 
have  no  capacity  for  opinions  being  impowered  to 
act  as  if  they  had.  That's  the  fallacy  that's  playing 
the  mischief  with  us,  all  over  the  world." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  119 

"They  never  will  have  opinions  worth  having  un 
less  they  are  given  the  liberty  to  look  for  them.  You 
don't  believe  in  liberty,  either,  when  you  say  that." 

"No;  not  for  everybody.  Some  of  our  brothers 
are  too  young  and  others  too  stupid  to  be  trusted 
with  it." 

"They'll  take  it  for  themselves  if  you  don't  trust 
them  with  it,"  said  Adrienne,  and  he  was  again 
aware  that  though  she  might  be  absurd  she,  at  all 
events,  was  not  stupid.  "All  that  we  can  do  in  life  is 
to  trust,  and  help,  and  open  doors.  Only  experience 
teaches.  People  must  follow  their  own  lights." 

He  moved  forward  another  pawn,  and  though  he 
did  not  find  her  stupid  he  was  not  taking  her  seri 
ously.  "Most  people  have  no  lights  to  follow.  It's 
a  choice  for  them  between  following  other  people's 
or  resenting  and  trampling  on  them.  That,  again, 
is  what  we  can  see  happening  all  over  the  world." 

"So  it  is,  you  must  own,  just  as  I  thought;  you 
don't  even  believe  in  fraternity,"  said  Adrienne, 
and  she  continued  to  smile  her  weary,  tranquil 
smile  upon  him;  "for  we  cannot  feel  towards  men  as 
towards  brothers,  and  trust  them,  unless  we  believe 
that  the  light  shines  into  each  human  soul." 

He  saw  now  that  unless  they  went  much  deeper, 
deeper  than  he  could  be  willing,  ever,  to  go  with 
Adrienne  Toner,  he  must  submit  to  letting  himself 
appear  as  worsted.  He  knew  where  he  believed  the 
roots  of  trust  to  grow  and  he  did  not  intend,  no 
never,  to  say  to  Adrienne  Toner  that  only  through 
the  love  of  God  could  one  at  once  distrust  and  love 
the  species  to  which  one  belonged.  He  could  have 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what  she  would  cer 
tainly  have  found  to  say  about  God. 


120  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"You've  got  all  sorts  of  brothers  here  to-night, 
haven't  you,"  he  remarked,  putting  aside  the  ab 
stract  theme  and  adjusting  his  glass.  "Some  of 
them  look  as  though  they  didn't  recognize  the  rela 
tionship.  Where  did  you  find  our  young  socialist 
over  there  in  the  corner?  He  looks  very  menacing. 
Most  of  the  socialists  I've  known  have  been  the 
mildest  of  men." 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  Palgrave's.  Palgrave  brought 
him  to  see  me.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  —  Gertrude  is  going 
to  take  care  of  him.  She  always  sees  at  once  if  any 
one  looks  lonely.  That's  all  right,  then." 

Old  meadow  was  not  so  sure  it  was  as  he  observed 
the  eye  with  which  Mr.  Besley  measured  the  beam 
ing  advance  of  the  lady  from  California. 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  like  my  dear  old  friend, 
Mrs.  Prentiss,"  Adrienne  continued,  watching  her 
method  with  Mr.  Besley.  "The  Laughing  Philoso 
pher,  Mother  used  to  call  her.  She  is  a  very  rare, 
strong  soul.  That  is  her  son,  talking  to  Lady  Lum- 
ley.  He's  been  studying  architecture  in  Paris  for  the 
past  three  years.  A  radiant  person.  Mrs.  Prentiss 
runs  a  settlement  in  San  Francisco  and  has  a  brilliant 
literary  and  artistic  salon.  She  is  a  real  force  in  the 
life  of  our  country." 

"Why  should  you  question  my  appreciation  of 
rarity  and  strength  ?  I  can  see  that  she  is  very  kind 
and  that  if  anybody  can  melt  Mr.  Besley  she  will." 

"Gertrude  would  have  melted  Diogenes,"  said 
Adrienne  with  a  fond  assurance  that,  though  it  took 
the  form  of  playfulness,  lacked  its  substance.  "I 
hope  they  will  find  each  other,  for  he  is  rare  and 
strong,  too.  What  he  needs  is  warmth  and  happi 
ness.  He  makes  me  think  of  Shelley  when  he  talks." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  121 

"He's  too  well  up  in  statistics  to  make  me  think  of 
Shelley,"  Oldmeadow  commented.  Barney,  he  saw, 
from  his  place  beside  Mrs.  Aldesey  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  was  still  watching  them,  pleased  now, 
it  was  evident,  by  the  appearance  of  friendly,  drift 
ing  converse  they  presented.  "He's  not  altogether 
unknown  to  me  for  we  often,  in  our  review,  get  our 
windows  broken  by  his  stones ;  well-thrown,  too.  He's 
very  able.  So  you  thought  it  might  do  the  British 
Empire  good  to  face  him?  Well,  I  suppose  it  may." 

"  Which  are  the  British  Empire? "  asked  Adrienne. 
"You.  To  begin  with." 

"Oh,  no.  Count  me  out.  I'm  only  a  snappy, 
snuffy  scribbler.  Good  old  Lord  Lumley,  of  course, 
with  all  his  vast,  well-governed  provinces  shimmer 
ing  in  the  Indian  sun  behind  him.  And  Sir  Archi 
bald,  who  talks  so  loudly  in  the  House.  Palgrave 
didn't  bring  him,  I'll  be  bound." 

"No.  Lady  Lumley  brought  him.  He  and  Lord 
Lumley  are  certainly  more  than  odds  and  ends." 
She  had  an  air  of  making  no  attempt  to  meet  his 
badinage,  if  it  was  that,  but  of  mildly  walking  past 
it.  "They  are,  both  of  them,  rather  splendid  people, 
in  spite  of  their  limitations.  They've  accepted  tra 
dition,  you  see,  instead  of  growing  opinion.  That  is 
their  only  trouble.  I  was  afraid  you  were  going  to 
say  Mr.  Haviland.  He  is  certainly  an  odd  and  end." 

Mr.  Haviland  and  Mrs.  Pope  had  found  each 
other  and  were  indulging  in  mirthful  repartee  in  the 
back  drawing-room.  "I  feel  safe  with  Lord  Lumley 
and  Sir  Archibald,"  Adrienne  added. 

"I'd  certainly  rather  trust  myself  in  their  hands 
than  in  Mr.  Besley's.  I'd  almost  rather  trust  myself 
in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Haviland." 


122  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"You  mean  that  they  would,  at  least,  keep  you 
comfortable  and  that  Mr.  Besley  wouldn't."  She, 
too,  had  her  forms  of  repartee. 

"I  expect  it's  just  what  I  do  mean,"  he  assented. 
"If  Mr.  Besley  and  his  friends  had  their  way,  I  for 
instance,  and  workers  of  my  type,  would  soon,  I 
suspect,  have  to  forego  our  tobacco  and  our  cham 
ber-music.  We're  only  marketable  in  a  comfortable 
world.  And  there  are  more  comfortable  people,  I 
maintain,  under  Lord  Lumley,  than  there  would  be 
under  Mr.  Besley." 

"  '  Heartily  know,  when  half-gods  go,  the  gods 
arrive,'  "  said  Adrienne.  "All  revolutions  must  begin 
by  burning  away  the  evil  and  the  refuse.  Not  that  I 
am  a  revolutionist,  or  even  a  socialist." 

"You  can't  separate  good  from  evil  by  burning," 
he  said.  "You  burn  them  both.  That's  what  the 
French  did  in  their  lamentable  bonfire,  for  which 
they've  been  paying  in  poorer  brains  and  poorer 
blood  ever  since.  We  don't  want  revolutions.  All  we 
want  is  slow,  good-tempered  reform.  Revolutions 
are  always  ill-tempered,  aren't  they,  and  nothing 
worth  doing  was  ever  done  in  an  ill- temper.  You 
are  making  me  very  didactic." 

"Oh,  but  I  prefer  that  so  much  to  persiflage," 
said  Adrienne,  with  her  tranquillity.  "And  I  am 
glad  to  hear  what  you  really  believe.  But  it  is  sad  to 
me  that  you  should  see  no  ardour  or  glory  in  any 
thing.  With  all  its  excesses  and  errors,  I  have  always 
felt  the  French  Revolution  to  be  a  sublime  expression 
of  the  human  spirit." 

"It  might  have  been;  if  they  could  only  have 
kept  their  heads  —  metaphorically  as  well  as  liter 
ally.  But  the  glory  and  ardour  were  too  mixed  with 


ADRIENNE  TONER  123 

hatred  and  ignorance.  I'm  afraid  I  do  tend  to  dis 
trust  those  states  of  feeling.  They  tend  so  easily  to 
self-deception." 

She  was  looking  at  him,  quietly  and  attentively, 
and  he  was,  for  the  first  time  since  their  initial  meet 
ing,  perhaps,  feeling  quite  benevolently  towards 
her;  quite  as  the  British  Empire  might  feel  towards 
a  subject  race.  It  was,  therefore,  the  more  difficult 
to  feel  anything  but  exasperation  when  she  said, 
having,  evidently,  summed  up  her  impressions  and 
found  her  verdict:  "Yes.  You  distrust  them.  We 
always  come  back  to  that,  don't  we?  You  distrust 
yourself,  too.  So  that,  when  you  tell  me  what  you 
believe,  you  can  only  do  it  in  the  form  of  making  fun 
of  my  beliefs.  I  feel  about  you,  Mr.  Oldmeadow, 
what  I  felt  that  morning  when  I  tried  to  come  near 
you  and  you  wouldn't  let  me.  I  feel  it  more  the 
more  I  see  you;  and  it  makes  me  sad.  It  isn't  only 
that  you  distrust  ardour  and  glory,  all  the  sunlight 
and  splendour  of  life;  but  you  are  afraid  of  them; 
afraid  to  open  your  heart  to  trust.  You  shut  your 
door  upon  the  sunlight  and  take  up  your  caustic  pen; 
and  you  don't  see  how  the  shadows  fall  about  you." 

It  was  indeed  a  dusty  tumble  from  the  quite  civil 
ized  pavement  of  their  interchange,  and  it  was  un 
fortunate  that  upon  his  moment  of  discomfiture, 
when  he  saw  himself  as  trying  to  clap  the  dust  off 
his  knees  and  shoulders  in  time  to  be  presentable, 
Barney  and  Mrs.  Aldesey  should  have  chosen  to 
approach  them.  Barney,  no  doubt,  imagined  it  a 
propitious  moment  in  which  to  display  to  Mrs. 
Aldesey  his  wife's  and  his  friend's  amity. 

Adrienne  was  perfectly  composed.  She  had  borne 
her  testimony  and,  again,  done  her  best  for  him, 


I24  ADRIENNE  TONER 

pointing  out  to  him  that  the  first  step  towards  en 
franchisement  was  to  open  his  door  to  the  sunlight 
that  she  could  so  bountifully  supply.  She  turned  a 
clear,  competent  eye  upon  her  husband  and  his  com 
panion. 

1 '  Well,  dear,  and  what  have  you  and  Roger  been 
so  deep  in?"  Barney  inquired,  looking  down  at  her 
with  a  fondness  in  which,  all  the  same,  Oldmeadow 
detected  the  anxiety  that  had  hovered  in  his  eye  all 
evening.  "You've  seemed  frightfully  deep." 

"We  have  been,"  said  Adrienne,  looking  up  at 
him.  "In  liberty,  equality  and  fraternity;  all  the 
things  I  believe  in  and  that  Mr.  Oldmeadow  doesn't. 
I  can't  imagine  how  he  gets  on  at  all,  he  believes  in 
so  few  things.  It  must  be  such  a  sad,  dim,  groping 
world  to  live  in  when  there  are  no  stars  above  to 
look  at  and  no  hands  below  to  hold." 

"Oh,  well,  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  Aldesey  with  her 
dragging  smile,  "his  ancestors  didn't  sign  the  Decla 
ration  of  Independence." 

"We  don't  need  ancestors  to  do  that,"  Adrienne 
smiled  back.  "All  of  us  sign  it  for  ourselves  —  all  of 
us  who  have  accepted  OUT  birthright  and  taken  the 
gifts  that  our  great,  modern,  deep-hearted  world 
hold  out  to  us.  You  are  an  American,  Mrs.  Alde 
sey,  so  you  find  it  easy  to  believe  in  freedom,  don't 
you?"  * 

"Very  easy;  for  myself;  but  not  for  other  people," 
Mrs.  Aldesey  replied  and  Oldmeadow  saw  at  once, 
with  an  added  discomfort,  that  she  underestimated, 
because  of  Adrienne's  absurdity,  Adrienne's  intel 
ligence.  "But  then  the  very  name  of  any  abstrac 
tion  —  freedom,  humanity,  what  you  will  —  has 
always  made  me  feel,  at  once,  dreadfully  sleepy. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  125 

It's  not  ever  having  had  my  mind  trained,  Mrs. 
Barney.  Now  yours  was,  beautifully,  I  can  see." 

Adrienne  looked  up  at  her,  for  Mrs.  Aldesey,  her 
lace  about  her  shoulders,  her  lorgnette  in  her  hands, 
had  not  seated  herself,  and  it  was  further  evident  to 
Oldmeadow  that  she  weighed  Mrs.  Aldesey  more 
correctly  than  Mrs.  Aldesey  weighed  her.  "Very 
carefully,  if  not  beautifully,"  she  said.  "  Have  I 
made  you  sleepy  already?  But  I  don't  want  to  go  on 
talking  about  abstractions.  I  want  to  talk  about 
Mr.  Oldmeadow.  The  truth  is,  Barney,"  and  her 
voice,  as  she  again  turned  her  eyes  on  her  husband, 
had  again  the  form  but  not  the  substance  of  gaiety, 
"the  truth  is  that  he's  a  lonely,  lonely  bachelor  and 
that  we  ought  to  arrange  a  marriage  for  him,  you 
and  I.  Since  he  doesn't  believe  in  freedom,  he  won't 
mind  having  a  marriage  arranged,  will  he?  —  if  we 
can  find  a  rare,  sweet,  gifted  girl." 

Barney  had  become  red.  "Roger's  been  teasing 
you,  darling.  Nobody  believes  in  freedom  more. 
Don't  let  him  take  you  in.  He's  an  awful  old  humbug 
with  his  Socratic  method.  He  upsets  you  before  you 
know  where  you  are.  He's  always  been  like  that." 

"Yes;  hasn't  he,"  Mrs.  Aldesey  murmured. 

"But  he  hasn't  upset  me  at  all,"  said  Adrienne. 
"  I  grant  that  he  was  trying  to,  that  he  was  doing  his 
very  best  to  give  me  a  tumble ;  but  I  quite  see  through 
him  and  he  doesn't  conceal  himself  from  me  in  the 
very  least.  He  doesn't  really  believe  in  freedom, 
however  much  he  may  have  taken  you  in,  Barney; 
he'd  think  it  wholesome,  of  course,  that  you  should 
believe  in  it.  That's  his  idea,  you  see ;  to  give  people 
what  he  thinks  wholesome;  to  choose  for  them.  It's 
the  lack  of  faith  all  through.  But  the  reason  is  that 


126  ADRIENNE  TONER 

he's  lonely;  dreadfully  lonely,  and  because  of  that 
he's  grown  to  be,  as  he  says,  snappy  and  snuffy;  so 
that  we  must  borrow  a  page  from  his  book  and  find 
what  is  wholesome  for  him.  I  know  all  the  symp 
toms  so  well.  I've  had  friends  just  like  that.  It's  a 
starved  heart  and  having  nobody  to  be  fonder  of 
than  anyone  else;  no  one  near  at  all.  He  must  be 
happily  married  as  soon  as  possible.  A  happy 
marriage  is  the  best  gift  of  life,  isn't  it,  Mrs. 
Aldesey?  If  we  haven't  known  that  we  haven't 
known  our  best  selves,  have  we?" 

" It  may  be;  we  mayn't  have,"  said  Mrs.  Aldesey, 
cheerfully;  but  she  was  not  liking  it.  "I  can't  say. 
Am  I  to  have  a  hand  in  choosing  his  bride?  I  know 
his  tastes,  I  think.  We're  quite  old  friends,  you  see." 

"No  one  who  doesn't  believe  in  freedom  for  other 
people  may  help  to  choose  her,"  said  Adrienne,  with 
a  curious  blitheness.  "That's  why  he  mayn't  choose 
her  himself.  We  must  go  quite  away  to  find  her; 
away  from  ceilings  and  conventions  and  out  into  the 
sunlight.  I  don't  believe  happiness  is  found  under 
ceilings.  And  it's  what  we  all  need  more  than  any 
thing  else.  Even  tobacco  and  chamber-music  don't 
make  you  a  bit  happy,  do  they,  Mr.  Oldmeadow? 
and  if  one  isn't  happy  one  can't  know  anything 
about  anything.  Not  really." 

"Alas!"  sighed  Mrs.  Aldesey,  keeping  up  her  end, 
but  not  very  successfully,  while  Barney  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  his  wife.  "And  I  thought  I'd  found  it  this 
evening,  under  this  ceiling.  Well,  I  shall  cherish  my 
illusion,  since  you  tell  me  it's  only  that,  and  thank 
you  for  it,  Mrs.  Barney.  The  Lumleys  are  going  to 
give  me  a  lift  and  I  see  that  their  car  has  been  an 
nounced." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  127 

"Stay  on  a  bit,  Roger,"  Barney  murmured,  as  the 
Lumleys  approached.  "  I've  seen  nothing  of  you  for 
ages." 

Adrienne  rose  to  greet  her  parting  guests. 

"Darling  Adrienne,  good-night.  It's  been  per 
fectly  delightful,  your  little  party,"  said  Lady  Lum- 
ley,  who  was  large,  light  and  easily  pleased;  an 
English  equivalent  of  the  lady  from  California,  but 
without  the  sprightliness.  "  Your  dear  young  Mr. 
Prentiss  is  a  treasure.  He's  been  telling  me  about 
Sicilian  temples.  We  must  get  there  one  day.  Mrs. 
Prentiss  says  they  will  come  to  us  for  a  week-end 
before  they  go.  How  extraordinarily  interesting  she 
is.  Don't  forget  that  you  are  coming  on  the  fif 
teenth." 

"I  shall  get  up  a  headache,  first  thing!"  Lord 
Lumley  stated  in  a  loud,  jocular  whisper,  reverting 
to  a  favourite  jest  on  Adrienne's  powers.  "That's 
the  thing  to  go  in  for,  eh?  I  won't  let  Charlie  cut  me 
out  this  time.  Not  a  night's  sleep  till  you  come!" 

"Go  in  for  as  many  as  you  like,  dear  Lord  Lum 
ley,"  said  Adrienne,  smiling  her  assurance  of  being 
able  to  deal  with  a  series. 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Barney,"  said  Mrs.  Aldesey. 
"Leave  me  a  little  standing-room  under  the  stars, 
won't  you." 

"There's  always  standing-room  under  the  stars," 
said  Adrienne.  "We  don't  exclude  each  other  there." 

The  party  showed  no  other  signs  of  breaking  up. 
The  Laughing  Philosopher  had  melted,  or,  at  all 
events,  mastered  Mr.  Besley,  and  talked  to  him 
with,  now  and  again,  a  maternal  hand  laid  on  his 
knee.  Mr.  Haviland  and  Mrs.  Pope  still  laughed  in 
the  back  drawing-room,  Meg  and  Mr.  Prentiss  had 


128  ADRIENNE  TONER 

come  together  again  and  Sir  Archibald  was  engaged 
with  a  pretty  girl.  After  looking  around  upon  them 
all,  Adrienne,  with  the  appearance  of  a  deeper  fatigue, 
sank  back  upon  her  sofa. 

"You  know,  darling,"  Barney  smiled  candidly 
upon  his  wife,  "you  rather  put  your  foot  in  it  just 
now.  Mrs.  Aldesey's  marriage  isn't  happy.  I  ought 
to  have  warned  you." 

"How  do  you  mean  not  happy,  Barney?"  Adri 
enne  looked  up  at  him.  "Isn't  Mr.  Aldesey  dead?" 

"Not  at  all  dead.  She  left  him  some  years  ago, 
didn't  she,  Roger?  He  lives  in  New  York.  It's  alto 
gether  a  failure." 

Adrienne  looked  down  at  her  fan.  "  I  didn't  know. 
But  one  can't  avoid  speaking  of  success  sometimes, 
even  to  failures." 

"Of  course  not.   Another  time  you  will  know." 

Adrienne  seemed  to  meditate,  but  without  com 
punction.  "That  was  what  she  meant,  then,  by 
saying  she  believed  in  freedom  for  herself  but  not  for 
other  people." 

"Meant?  How  do  you  mean?  She  was  joking." 

"If  she  left  him.    It  was  she  who  left  him?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  Barney  spoke 
now  with  definite  vexation  and  Oldmeadow,  in  his 
corner  of  the  sofa,  his  arms  folded,  his  eyes  on  the 
cornice,  gave  him  no  help.  "Except  that,  yes,  cer 
tainly;  it's  she  who  left  him.  She's  not  a  deserted 
wife.  Anything  but." 

"It's  only  Mr.  Aldesey  who  is  the  deserted  hus 
band,"  Adrienne  turned  her  fan  and  kept  her  eyes 
on  it.  "It's  only  he  who  can't  be  free.  Forgive  me  if 
she's  a  special  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Oldmeadow;  but 
it  explains.  I  felt  something  so  brittle,  so  unreal  in 


ADRIENNE  TONER  129 

her,  charming  and  gracious  as  she  is.    It  is  so  very 
wrong  for  a  woman  to  do  that,  I  think." 

"Wrong?"  Barney  echoed,  staring  at  Oldmeadow 
while  this  firm  hand  was  laid  upon  his  Egeria. 
"What  the  dickens  do  you  mean,  darling?  She  is  a 
special  friend  of  Roger's.  You  don't  surely  mean  to 
say  a  woman  must,  under  all  circumstances,  stick  to 
a  man  she  doesn't  love?" 

"Anything  but  that,  Barney.  I  think  that  she 
should  leave  him  and  set  him  free.  It's  quite  plain 
to  me  that  if  a  wife  will  not  live  with  her  husband  it 
is  her  duty  to  divorce  him.  Then,  at  any  rate,  he  can 
try  for  happiness  again." 

"  Divorce  him,  my  dear  child!  "  Barney  was  try 
ing  to  keep  up  appearances  but  the  note  of  marital 
severity  came  through  and  as  it  sounded  Adrienne 
raised  her  eyes  to  his:  "It's  not  so  easy  as  all  that! 
Aldesey,  whatever  his  faults,  may  have  given  her  no 
cause  to  divorce  him,  and  I  take  it  you'll  not  suggest 
that  Mrs.  Aldesey  should  give  him  cause  to  divorce 
her." 

On  her  sofa,  more  pallid  under  her  powder,  more 
sunken  than  before,  and  with  the  queer  squashed-in 
look  emphasized,  Adrienne  kept  steady  eyes  up 
lifted  to  her  husband.  "Not  at  all,  dear  Barney," 
she  returned  and  Oldmeadow,  though  hardened 
against  the  pathos  of  her  physical  disability,  saw 
that  she  spoke  with  difficulty,  "  but  I  think  that  you 
confuse  the  real  with  the  conventional  wrong.  Mrs. 
Aldesey  would  not  care  to  face  any  unconvention- 
ality;  that  is  quite  apparent.  She  would  draw  her 
skirts  aside  from  any  conventional  wrong-doing. 
But  the  real  wrong  she  would  be  blind  to ;  the  wrong 
of  keeping  anyone  bound  in  the  emptiness  you  have 


130  ADRIENNE  TONER 

made  for  them.  Setting  free  is  not  so  strange  and 
terrible  a  matter  as  you  seem  to  imagine.  It's  quite 
easy  for  brave,  unshackled  people." 

"Well,  I  must  really  be  off,"  Oldmeadow  now 
seized  the  occasion  to  declare.  "  I  believe,  as  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  that  Mr.  Aldesey  lives  very  contentedly 
in  New  York,  collecting  French  prints  and  giving 
excellent  dinners.  Anything  open  and  scandalous 
would  be  as  distasteful  to  him  as  to  his  wife.  They 
are,  both  of  them,  happier  apart ;  that's  all  it  comes 
to.  So  you  must  read  your  lessons,  even  by  proxy,  to 
more  authentic  misdemeanants,  Mrs.  Barney.  All 
right,  Barney.  Don't  come  down.  I'll  hope  to  see 
you  both  again  quite  soon." 

So  he  got  away,  concealing  as  best  he  might,  his 
sense  of  tingling  anger.  But  it  died  away  to  a  sense 
of  chill  as  he  walked  down  Park  Lane.  Was  not 
Barney  unhappy,  already?  What  did  she  say  to  him 
when  she  got  him  to  herself?  He  felt  sure  that  she 
had  never  bargained  for  a  husband  who  could  look 
at  her  with  ill-temper. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"  ROGER,  see  here,  I've  only  come  to  say  one  word  - 
about  the  absurd  little  matter  of  last  night.    Only 
one;  and  then  we'll  never  speak  of  it  again,"  said 
poor  Barney. 

He  had  come  as  soon  as  the  very  next  day  —  to 
exonerate,  not  to  apologize;  that  was  evident  at 
once.  Oldmeadow  had  not  long  to  wait  before  learn 
ing  what  she  had  said  to  him  when  she  got  him  to 
herself,  nor  long  to  wait  before  realizing  that  if 
Barney  had  been  unhappy  last  night  he  thought 
himself  happy  to-day. 

"Really,  my  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "it's  not  worth 
talking  about." 

"Oh,  but  we  must  talk  about  it,"  said  Barney. 
He  was  red  and  spoke  quickly.  "  It  upset  her  fright 
fully;  it  made  her  perfectly  miserable.  She  cried  for 
hours,  Roger,"  Barney's  voice  dropped  to  a  haggard 
note.  "You  know,  though  she  bears  up  so  marvel 
lously,  she's  ill.  She  doesn't  admit  illness  and  that 
makes  it  harder  for  her,  because  it  simply  bewilders 
her  when  she  finds  herself  on  edge  like  this  and  her 
body  refusing  to  obey  her.  The  baby  is  coming  in 
May,  you  know." 

"  I  know,  my  dear  Barney.  The  evening  was  very 
fatiguing  for  her.  I  saw  it  all  I  think.  I  noticed  from 
the  beginning  how  tired  she  looked." 

"Horribly  tired.  Horribly  fatiguing.  I'm  glad 
you  saw  it.  For  that's  really  what  I  came  to  explain. 
She  was  tired  to  begin  with  and  Mrs.  Aldesey  put 
her  on  edge.  I  think  I  saw  that  myself  at  dinner  - 


132  ADRIENNE  TONER 

and,  oh,  before  that;  on  the  day  we  had  tea  with  her, 
when  we  first  came  up,  in  November  —  Adrienne 
felt  then  that  Mrs.  Aldesey  didn't  understand  or 
care  for  her.  You  know  she  is  so  full  of  love  and 
sympathy  for  everybody  herself  that  she  is  liter 
ally  sickened  when  she  is  treated  in  that  artificial, 
worldly  way.  And  you  know,  Roger,  Mrs.  Aldesey  is 
artificial  and  worldly." 

That  was  how  she  had  put  it  to  Barney,  of  course. 
But  Oldmeadow  saw  further  than  Mrs.  Aldesey  and 
her  artificiality.  He  saw  a  dishevelled  and  weeping 
Adrienne  stricken  to  the  heart  by  the  sense  of  threat 
ened  foundations,  aghast  by  what  she  had  seen  in 
her  husband's  eyes;  and  he  was  aware,  even  while 
he  resented  having  it  put  upon  Lydia,  of  a  curious, 
reluctant  pity  for  the  pale,  weeping  figure.  Lydia 
had,  obviously,  displeased  her;  but  Lydia  had  been 
the  mere  occasion;  she  could  have  dealt  easily 
enough  with  Lydia.  It  had  been  the  revelation  that 
Barney  could  oppose  her,  could  almost,  for  a  mo 
ment,  dislike  her,  that  had  set  her  universe  rocking. 
Her  first  taste  of  reality,  then.  The  thought  came 
rather  grimly,  with  the  pity.  After  all  it  was  their 
best  chance  of  happiness;  that  she  should  learn  to 
accept  herself  as  a  person  who  could  be  opposed, 
even  disliked,  in  flashes,  while  still  loved.  He  had 
sat  silent  while  he  thought,  one  of  his  silences  which, 
when  he  emerged  from  them,  he  often  recognized  as 
over-long.  Barney  must  have  felt  the  weight  of  all 
he  did  not  say  when  all  that  he  found  to  say  was: 
"What  it  comes  to,  doesn't  it,  is  that  they  neither  of 
them  take  much  to  each  other.  Lydia  is  certainly 
conventional." 

"Ah,   but  Lady  Lumley  is  conventional,   too," 


ADRIENNE  TONER  133 

said  Barney  with  an  irrepressible  air  of  checkmate. 
"  Hordes  of  conventional  people  adore  Adrienne. 
It's  a  question  of  the  heart.  There  are  people  who 
are  conventional  without  being  worldly.  It's  world- 
liness  that  stifles  Adrienne.  It's  what  she  was  saying 
last  night:  'They  have  only  ceilings;  I  must  have  the 
sky.'  Not  that  she  thinks  you  worldly,  dear  old  boy." 

"I  hope  you  try  to  interpret  me  to  her  kindly," 
said  Oldmeadow,  smiling.  Even  at  the  moment 
when  Barney,  all  innocently,  was  revealing  to  him 
Adrienne's  tactics,  the  fragments  of  her  vocabulary 
imbedded  in  his  speech  were  affording  him  amuse 
ment.  "You  must  try  and  persuade  her  that  I've 
quite  a  fondness  for  the  sky  myself,  and  even  pub 
lished  a  volume  of  verse  in  my  youth." 

"I  do.  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Barney  eagerly. 
"And  I  gave  her  your  poems,  long  ago.  She  loved 
them.  It's  your  sardonic  pessimism  she  doesn't 
understand  —  in  anyone  who  could  have  written 
like  that  when  they  were  young.  She  never  met 
anything  like  it  before  in  her  life.  And  the  way  you 
never  seem  to  take  anything  seriously.  It  makes  her 
dreadfully  sorry  for  you,  even  while  she  finds  it  so 
hard  to  accept  in  anyone  she  cares  for  —  because  she 
really  does  so  care  for  you,  Roger"  —  there  was  a 
note  of  appeal  in  Barney's  voice-  "and  does  so 
long  to  find  a  way  out  for  you.  It  was  a  joke,  of 
course;  but  all  the  same  we've  often  wished  you 
could  find  the  right  woman  to  marry." 

Barney,  as  he  had  done  last  night,  grew  very  red 
again,  so  that  it  was  apparent  to  Oldmeadow  that 
not  only  the  marriage  but  the  woman  —  the  rare, 
gifted  girl  —  had  been  discussed  between  him  and 
his  wife. 


134  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"Adrienne  thinks  everyone  ought  to  be  married, 
you  see,"  he  tried  to  pass  it  off.  " Since  we  are  so 
happy  ourselves." 

"I  see,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "There's  another 
thing  you  must  try  to  persuade  her  of:  that  I'm  not 
at  all  un  jeune  homme  d  marier,  and  that  if  I  ever 
seek  a  companion  it  will  probably  be  some  one  like 
myself,  some  one  sardonic  and  pessimistic.  If  I 
fixed  my  affections  on  the  lovely  girl,  you  see,  it 
isn't  likely  they'd  be  reciprocated." 

"Oh,  but"  -  Barney's  eagerness  again  out 
stepped  his  discretion  -  "wouldn't  the  question  of 
money  count  there,  Roger?  If  she  had  plenty  of 
money,  you  know,  or  you  had ;  enough  for  both ;  and 
a  place  in  the  country?  Of  course,  it's  all  fairy-tale; 
but  Adrienne  is  a  fairy-tale  person ;  material  things 
don't  count  with  her  at  all.  She  waves  them  away 
and  wants  other  people  to  wave  them  away,  too. 
What  she  always  says  is:  'What  does  my  money 
mean  unless  it's  to  open  doors  for  people  I  love?' 
She's  starting  that  young  Besley,  you  know,  just 
because  of  Palgrave;  setting  him  up  as  editor  of  a 
little  review  —  rotten  it  is,  I  think  —  but  Adrienne 
says  people  must  follow  their  own  lights.  And  it's 
just  that;  she'd  love  to  open  doors  for  you,  if  it  could 
make  you  happy." 

Oldmeadow  at  this,  after  a  moment  of  receptivity, 
began  to  laugh  softly;  but  the  humour  of  the  situa 
tion  grew  upon  him  until  he  at  last  threw  back  his 
head  and  indulged  in  open  and  prolonged  mirth. 
Barney  watched  him  bashfully.  "You're  not  angry, 
I  see,"  he  ventured.  "You  don't  think  it  most  awful 
cheek,  I  mean?" 

"  I  think  it  is  most  awful  cheek;  but  I'm  not  angry; 


ADRIENNE  TONER  135 

not  a  bit,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "Fairy-godmothers 
are  nothing  if  not  cheeky ;  are  they?  Oh,  I  know  you 
meant  your,  not  her,  cheek.  But  it's  the  fault  of  the 
fairy-godmother,  all  the  same,  and  you  must  con 
vince  her  that  I'm  not  in  love  with  anybody,  and 
that  if  ever  I  am  she'll  have  to  content  herself  with 
my  small  earnings  and  a  flat  in  Chelsea." 

So  he  jested;  but,  when  his  friend  was  gone,  he 
realized  that  he  was  a  little  angry  all  the  same  and  he 
feared  that  his  mirth  had  not  been  able  to  conceal 
from  Barney  that  what  he  really  found  it  was  con 
founded  impudence.  Barney's  face  had  worn,  as  he 
departed,  the  look  of  mingled  gratitude  and  worry 
and  Barney  must  feel,  as  well  as  he  felt,  that  their 
interview  hadn't  really  cleared  up  anything  —  ex 
cept  his  own  readiness  to  overlook  the  absurdities  of 
Barney's  wife.  What  became  more  and  more  clear 
to  himself  was  that  unless  he  could  enable  Adrienne 
to  enroll  his  name  on  her  banner  she  would  part  him 
from  Barney  and  that  her  very  benevolence  was  a 
method.  The  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  uncom 
fortable  he  felt,  and  his  inner  restlessness  became  at 
length  an  impulse  urging  him  out  to  take  counsel  or, 
rather,  seek  solace,  with  the  friend  from  whom  Adri 
enne  could  never  part  him.  He  would  go  and  have 
tea  with  Lydia  Aldesey  and  with  the  more  eagerness 
from  the  fact  that  he  was  aware  of  a  slight  dissatis 
faction  in  regard  to  Lydia.  She  had  not  altogether 
pleased  him  last  night.  She  had  put  herself  in  the 
wrong ;  she  had  blundered ;  she  hadn't  behaved  with 
the  skill  and  tact  requisite ;  and  to  elicit  from  her  a 
confession  of  ineptitude  would  make  his  sense  of 
solace  the  more  secure. 

The  day  was  a  very  different  day  from  the  one  in 


136  ADRIENNE  TONER 

April  when  he  had  first  gone  to  ask  Mrs.  Aldesey  for 
information  about  people  called  Toner.  It  was  early 
February,  dull  and  cold  and  damp.  No  rain  was  fall 
ing,  but  the  trees  were  thick  with  moisture  and  Old- 
meadow  had  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets  and  the 
collar  of  his  coat  turned  up  about  his  ears.  As  he 
crossed  the  Serpentine,  an  electric  brougham  passed 
him,  going  slowly,  and  he  had  a  glimpse  within  it, 
short  but  very  vivid,  of  Adrienne,  Meg,  and  Captain 
Hay  ward. 

Adrienne,  wearing  a  small  arrangement  of  black 
velvet  that  came  down  over  her  brows,  was  holding 
Meg's  hand  and,  while  she  spoke,  was  looking  stead 
ily  at  her,  her  face  as  white  as  that  of  a  Pierrot. 
Meg  listened,  gloomily  it  seemed,  and  Captain  Hay- 
ward's  handsome  countenance,  turned  for  refuge 
towards  the  window,  showed  an  extreme  embarrass 
ment. 

They  passed  and  Oldmeadow  pursued  his  way, 
filled  with  a  disagreeable  astonishment  though, 
absurdly,  his  mind  was  at  first  occupied  only  in  an 
attempt  to  recover  a  submerged  memory  that  Cap 
tain  Hay  ward's  demeanour  suggested.  It  came  at 
last  in  an  emancipating  flash  and  he  saw  again,  after 
how  many  years,  the  golden-brown  head  of  his  rather 
silly  setter,  John,  turned  aside  in  shy  yet  dignified 
repudiation,  that  still,  by  a  dim,  sick  smile,  at 
tempted  to  conceal  distress  and  to  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  game  —  as  a  kitten  was  held  up  for  his 
contemplation.  A  kitten  was  a  very  inadequate 
analogy,  no  doubt,  for  the  theme  of  Adrienne's  dis 
course;  yet  Captain  Hay  ward's  reaction  to  a  situa 
tion  for  which  he  found  himself  entirely  unprepared 
was  markedly  like  John's.  And  he,  like  John,  had 


ADRIENNE  TONER  137 

known  that  the  game  was  meant  to  be  at  his  expense. 
John  and  Captain  Hayward  got  Oldmeadow  out  of 
the  park  before  he  had  taken  full  possession  of  his 
astonishment  and  could  ask  himself  why,  if  Adrienne 
were  engaged  in  rescuing  Meg  from  her  illicit  at 
tachment,  she  should  do  it  in  the  company  of  the 
young  man.  Yet,  strangely  enough,  he  felt,  as  he 
walked,  a  growing  sense  of  reassurance.  For  an 
emergency  like  this,  after  all,  given  amenable  sub 
jects,  Adrienne  was  the  right  person.  He  hadn't 
dreamed  it  to  be  such  an  emergency;  but  since  it 
was,  Adrienne  would  pull  them  through.  As  she 
would  have  laid  her  hand  on  the  head  of  Bacchus 
and  reformed  him,  so  she  would  lay  it  on  the  head  of 
Captain  Hayward. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  incident  put  Mrs.  Aldesey  quite  out  of  his 
mind,  and  it  was  not  till  he  stood  on  her  doorstep 
and  rang  her  bell  that  he  remembered  his  grievance 
against  her  and  realized  that  it  had  been  made  more 
definite  by  this  glimpse  of  Adrienne's  significance. 
That  his  friend  was  prepared  for  him  was  evident  at 
his  first  glance ;  she  had  even,  he  saw,  been  expecting 
him,  for  she  broke  out  at  once  with:  "Oh,  my  dear 
Roger  —  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  her?" 

He  was  actually  pleased  to  find  himself  putting 
her,  with  some  grimness,  in  her  place.  "What  is 
she  going  to  do  with  us?  you  mean.  You  underrate 
Mrs.  Barney's  capacity,  let  me  tell  you,  my  dear 
friend." 

But  Mrs.  Aldesey  was  not  easily  quelled.  "  Under 
rate  her!  Not  I!  She's  a  Juggernaut  if  ever  there 
was  one.  Her  capacity  is  immense.  She'll  roll  on 
and  she'll  crush  flat.  That  poor  Barney!  She  is  as 
blind  as  a  Juggernaut,  but  he  will  come  to  see  - 
alas!  he  is  seeing  already  —  though  you  and  I 
danced  round  him  with  veils  and  cymbals  —  that 
people  won't  stand  being  pelted  with  platitudes 
from  soup  to  dessert.  The  Lumleys  will,  of  course; 
it's  their  natural  diet;  though  even  they  like  their 
platitudes  served  with  a  touch  of  sauce  piquante; 
but  Rosamund  Pope  told  me  that  she  felt  black  and 
blue  all  over  and  Cuthbert  Haviland  —  malicious 
toad  —  imitates  her  already  to  perfection :  dreadful 
little  voice,  dreadful  little  smile,  dreadful  little 
quotations  and  all.  It  will  be  one  of  his  London 


ADRIENNE  TONER  139 

gags.  That  shepherdess!  My  dear  Roger,  don't 
pretend  to  me  that  you  don't  see  it!" 

Oldmeadow,  sunken  in  the  chair  opposite  her, 
surveyed  her  over  his  clasped  hands  with  an  air  of 
discouragement. 

"What  I'm  most  seeing  at  the  moment  is  that 
she's  made  you  angry,"  he  remarked.  "  If  what  you 
say  were  all  the  truth,  why  should  she  make  you 
angry?  She's  not  as  blind  as  a  Juggernaut.  That's 
where  you  made  your  mistake.  She'll  only  crush 
the  people  who  don't  lie  down  before  her.  She  knows 
perfectly  well  where  she  is  going  —  and  over  whom. 
So  be  careful,  that  is  my  advice,  and  keep  out  of  her 
way;  unless  you  want  to  lose  a  toe  or  a  finger." 

Mrs.  Aldesey  showed,  at  this,  that  he  had  ar 
rested  her.  In  spite  of  the  element  of  truth  in  Adri- 
enne's  verdict  upon  her  he  knew  her  to  be,  when  veils 
and  cymbals  were  cast  aside,  a  sincere  and  gallant 
creature.  She  did  not  attempt  to  hide  from  him  now 
and,  after  a  moment  of  mutual  contemplation,  she 
laughed  a  little,  with  not  unreal  mirth  and  said: 
"I  suppose  I  am  angry.  I  suppose  I'm  even  spiteful. 
It's  her  patronage,  you  know.  Her  suffocating  su 
periority.  To  have  to  stand  there,  for  his  sake,  and 
take  it!  You  overrate  her,  Roger.  No  woman  not 
abysmally  stupid  could  say  the  things  she  says." 

"Your  mistake  again.  She's  able  to  say  them  be 
cause  she's  never  met  irony  or  criticism.  She's  not  stu 
pid,"  he  found  his  old  verdict.  "Only  absurd.  You 
know,  you  gave  yourself  away  to  her.  You  showed 
her  what  you  thought  of  her.  You  patronized  her." 

"Is  no  retaliation  permitted?"  Mrs.  Aldesey 
moaned.  "  Must  one  accept  it  all?  Be  scourged  with 
the  stars  and  Browning  and  then  bow  one's  head  to 


i4o  ADRIENNE  TONER 

her  caresses?  After  all,  Barney  is  your  friend,  not 
mine,  and  it's  as  your  friend  that  I've  tried  to  be  de 
cent  to  his  wife.  But  she  hates  me  like  poison.  She 
gave  herself  away,  too,  you  know.  I  liked  the  way 
she  excluded  me  from  her  prospects  for  your  welfare. 
And  of  course  she  knew  my  marriage  wasn't  a  happy 
one." 

"  I  don't  think  that  she  did.  No;  I  don't  think  so. 
You  are  poison  to  her  —  cold  poison,"  said  Old- 
meadow.  "Don't  imagine  for  a  moment  she  didn't 
see  that  you  were  dancing  about  him  with  veils  and 
cymbals.  She  didn't  give  herself  away,  for  she  had 
nothing  to  conceal.  She  was  candid  and  you  weren't. 
She  didn't  pretend  that  you  were  under  the  stars 
with  her;  while  you  kept  up  appearances." 

"But  what's  to  become  of  your  Barney  if  we  don't 
keep  them  up!"  Mrs.  Aldesey  cried.  "Is  he  to  be 
allowed  to  see  that  nobody  can  stand  her  —  except 
people  he  can't  stand?  He'll  have  to  live,  then,  with 
Mrs.  and  Mr.  Prentiss.  Did  you  try  to  talk  to  Mrs. 
Prentiss?  Do  you  know  that  she  told  me  that  death 
was  'perfectly  sublime'?" 

"  Perhaps  it  is.  Perhaps  she'll  find  it  so.  They  all 
seem  to  think  well  of  death,  out  in  California"  — 
Oldmeadow  allowed  himself  to  relax  from  his  ad 
monitory  severity.  "Mrs.  Prentiss  isn't  as  silly  as 
she  seems,  I  expect.  And  you  exaggerate  Barney's 
sensitiveness.  He'd  get  on  very  well  with  Mrs.  Pren 
tiss  if  you  weren't  there  to  show  him  you  found  her 
a  bore.  He  has  a  very  simple  side  and  we  must  hope 
it  may  become  simpler.  The  only  chance  for  Bar 
ney,  I  see  it  more  and  more,  is  that  we  should  efface 
ourselves  as  much  as  possible.  The  people  who  find 
the  Prentisses  a  bore,  I  mean.  And  it  won't  be  dif- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  141 

ficult  for  us  to  do  that.  She  will  see  to  it  that  we  are 
effaced.  Only,  of  course,  it's  a  grief.  I'm  so  fond  of 
him";  and  as  Oldmeadow  stretched  forth  his  legs 
and  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  there  drifted  across 
his  mind,  in  a  thin,  sharp,  knife-like  stroke,  the 
memory  of  Barney  —  tall  eighteen-year-old  Barney 
—  with  dear  old  Effie,  luxuriously  upturned  in  his 
arms,  being  softly  scratched  —  Barney's  hand  with 
a  cat  was  that  of  an  expert  —  and  told  that  she  was 
the  best  and  most  beautiful  of  cats. 

"It's  a  great  shame,"  said  Mrs.  Aldesey;  "I've 
been  thinking  my  spiteful  thoughts,  too,  instead  of 
sympathizing  with  you.  Of  course,  if  it's  any  con 
solation  to  you,  one  usually  does  lose  one's  friends 
when  they  marry.  But  it  needn't  have  been  as  bad 
as  this.  What  a  thousand  pities  he  couldn't  have 
fallen  in  love  with  a  nice  girl  of  his  own  kind.  You 
couldn't  do  anything  about  it  when  you  went  down 
in  the  spring?" 

Oldmeadow  had  never  said  anything  to  Mrs. 
Aldesey  about  his  hopes  for  Nancy.  He  had  a  se 
cretive  instinct  for  keeping  his  friendships  in  com 
partments  and  discussed  only  those  portions  that 
overflowed.  "Nothing,"  he  said.  "And  the  mis 
chief  was  that  I  went  down  hostile,  as  you  warned 
me  against  doing.  Barney  saw  at  once  that  I  didn't 
care  for  her;  and  she  saw  it  at  once.  He  even  forced 
a  sort  of  expression  of  opinion  from  me  and  I  know 
now  that  it's  always  glooming  there  at  the  back  of 
his  mind  when  he  sees  me.  It  was  quite  useless. 
Once  he'd  fallen  under  her  spell  it  was  all  up  with 
him.  She  has  her  singular  power  and,  for  a  man  in 
love  with  her,  her  singular  charm.  Even  I,  you 
know,  understand  that." 


I42  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Mrs.  Aldesey  contemplated  him.  "I  confess  I 
can't,"  she  said.  "She  is  so  desperately  usual.  I've 
seen  her  everywhere,  ever  since  I  can  remember. 
Attending  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne;  listening  to 
Wagner  at  Bayreuth;  having  dresses  tried  on  at 
Worth's;  sitting  in  the  halls  of  a  hundred  European 
hotels.  She  is  the  most  unescapable  form  of  the 
American  woman ;  only  not  du  peuple  because  of  the 
money  and  opportunity  that  has  also  extirpated 
everything  racy,  provincial  and  individual." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Oldmeadow.  He  mused,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head.  "She's  given  me  all 
sorts  of  new  insights."  His  eyes,  after  his  wont,  were 
on  the  cornice  and  his  friend's  contemplation,  re 
laxed  a  little  from  its  alert  responsiveness,  allowed 
itself  a  certain  conjectural  softness  as  she  watched 
him.  "I  feel,"  he  went  on,  "since  knowing  her,  that 
I  understand  America,  her  America,  better  than  you 
do.  You're  engaged  in  avoiding  rather  than  in  un 
derstanding  it,  aren't  you?  What  you  underrate, 
what  Americans  of  your  type  don't  see  —  because, 
as  you  say,  it's  so  oppressively  usual  —  is  the  power 
of  her  type.  If  it  is  a  type ;  if  she  is  as  ordinary  as  you 
say.  It's  something  bred  into  them  by  the  American 
assumption  of  the  fundamental  Tightness  of  life; 
a  confidence  unknown  before  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  An  individual,  not  an  institutional  or  social, 
confidence.  They  do,  actually,  seem  to  take  their 
stand  on  the  very  universe  itself.  Whereas  the  rest 
of  us  have  always  had  churches  or  classes  to  uphold 
us.  They  have  all  the  absurdities  and  crudities  of 
mere  individualism.  They  have  all  the  illusions  of 
their  ignorance.  Yet  I  sometimes  imagine,  after 
I've  seen  her,  that  it's  a  power  we  haven't  in  the 


ADRIENNE  TONER  143 

least  taken  into  our  reckoning.  Isn't  it  the  only 
racial  thing  that  America  has  produced  —  the  only 
thing  that  makes  them  a  race?  It  makes  them  inde 
pendent  of  us,  when  we've  always  imagined,  in  our 
complacency,  that  they  were  dependent.  It  enables 
them  to  take  what  we  have  to  give,  but  to  do  with 
it  what  they,  not  we,  think  best.  And  by  Jove,  who 
knows  how  far  it  will  carry  them!  Not  you,  my 
dear  Lydia.  You'll  stay  where  you  are  —  with  us. " 

His  eyes  had  come  back  and  down  to  her,  and  her 
gaze  resumed  its  alertness  and  showed  him  that  she 
found  the  picture  he  drew  disquieting.  "You  mean 
it's  a  new  kind  of  civilization  that  will  menace  ours?  " 

"It's  not  a  civilization;  that's  just  what  it's  not. 
It's  a  state  of  mind.  Perhaps  it  will  menace  us.  Per 
haps  it  does.  We've  underrated  it;  of  that  I'm  sure; 
and  underrated  power  is  always  dangerous.  It  will 
be  faith  without  experience  against  experience  with 
out  faith.  What  we  must  try  for,  if  we're  not  to  be 
worsted,  is  to  have  both  —  to  keep  experience  and 
to  keep  faith,  too.  Only  so  shall  we  be  able  to  hold 
our  own  against  Mrs.  Barney.  And  even  so  we 
shan't  be  able  to  prevent  her  doing  things  to  us  — 
and  for  us.  She'll  do  things  for  us  that  we  can't  do 
for  ourselves."  His  mind  reverted  to  the  faces  of 
the  brougham.  "In  that  way  she's  bound  to  worst 
us.  We'll  have  to  accept  things  from  her." 

Oldmeadow's  eyes  had  gone  back  to  the  cornice 
and,  in  the  silence  that  followed,  Mrs.  Aldesey,  as 
she  sat  with  folded  arms,  played  absently  with  the 
lace  ruffle  at  her  wrist.  The  lace  was  an  heirloom, 
like  her  rings,  and  the  contemplation  of  them  may 
have  afforded  her  some  sustainment.  "She's  made 
you  feel  all  that,  then,"  she  remarked.  "With  her 


I44  ADRIENNE  TONER 

crook  and  her  hat  and  her  rose- wreathed  lamb.  If 
such  a  sardonic  old  lion  as  you  does  really  grow 
bodeful  before  the  rose-wreathed  lamb  there  is,  I 
own,  reason  to  fear  for  the  future.  I'm  glad  I'm 
growing  old.  It  would  hurt  me  to  see  her  cutting 
your  claws." 

"Oh,  she  won't  hurt  us!"  Oldmeadow  smiled  at 
her.  "It's  rather  we  who  will  hurt  her  —  by  refus 
ing  to  lie  down  with  her  lamb.  If  that's  any  com 
fort  to  you." 

"Not  in  the  least.  I'm  not  being  malicious.  You 
don't  call  it  hurt,  then,  to  be  effaced?" 

"Smothered  in  rose-leaves,  eh?"  he  suggested. 
"It  would  be  suffocating  rather  than  suffering.  She 
does  give  me  that  feeling.  But  you'll  make  her 
suffer1 —  you  have,  you  know  —  rather  than  she  you." 

"1  really  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Aldesey.  "You  make  me  quite  uncomfortable, 
Roger.  You  make  me  superstitious.  She's  done  that 
to  me  already.  I  refuse  to  take  her  seriously,  but  I 
shall  avoid  her.  That's  what  it  comes  to.  Like  not 
giving  the  new  moon  a  chance  to  look  at  you  over 
your  left  shoulder." 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON  a  morning  in  early  March  Oldmeadow  found, 
among  the  letters  waiting  for  him  on  his  breakfast 
table,  one  from  Nancy.  Nancy  and  he,  with  all 
their  fondness,  seldom  wrote  to  each  other  and  he 
was  aware,  on  seeing  her  writing,  of  the  presage  of 
something  disagreeable  that  the  unexpected  often 
brings. 

"Dear  Roger,"  he  read,  and  in  his  first  glance  he 
saw  his  presage  fulfilled.  "We  are  in  great  trouble. 
Aunt  Eleanor  has  asked  me  to  write  because  she  is 
too  ill  and  it  is  to  me  as  well  as  to  her  that  Meg  has 
written  and  she  wants  you  to  see  Barney  at  once. 
Here  are  Meg's  letters.  She  has  gone  away  with 
Captain  Hay  ward.  Aunt  Eleanor  and  Mother 
think  that  Barney  may  be  able  to  persuade  Ad- 
rienne  to  bring  her  back.  No  one  else,  we  feel  con 
vinced,  will  have  any  influence  with  her.  Do  any 
thing,  anything  you  can,  dear  Roger.  Mother  and 
I  are  almost  frightened  for  Aunt  Eleanor.  She 
walks  about  wringing  her  hands  and  crying,  and 
she  goes  up  to  Meg's  room  and  opens  the  door  and 
looks  in  —  as  if  she  could  not  believe  she  would  not 
find  her  there.  It  is  heart-breaking  to  see  her.  We 
depend  on  you,  dear  Roger. 

"  Yours  ever 

"NANCY." 

"Good  Lord!"  Oldmeadow  muttered  while,  in 
lightning  flashes,  there  passed  across  his  mind  the 
face  of  John  the  setter  and  a  Pierrot's  face,  white 


146  ADRIENNE  TONER 

under  a  low  line  of  black  velvet.  He  took  up  Meg's 
letters,  written  from  a  Paris  hotel. 

"  DARLING  MOTHER,  I  know  it  will  make  you  fright 
fully  miserable  and  I  can't  forgive  myself  for  that; 
but  it  had  to  be.  Eric  and  I  cared  too  much  and  it 
wasn't  life  at  all,  going  on  as  we  were  apart.  Try, 
darling  Mother,  to  see  it  as  we  do  see  things  now 
adays.  Adrienne  will  explain  it  all  —  and  you  must 
believe  her.  You  know  what  a  saint  she  is  and  she 
has  been  with  us  in  it  all,  understanding  everything 
and  helping  us  to  be  straight.  Everything  will  come 
right.  Iris  Hayward  will  set  Eric  free,  of  course ;  she 
doesn't  care  one  bit  for  him  and  has  made  him 
frightfully  unhappy  ever  since  they  married,  and 
she  wants  to  marry  some  one  else  herself  —  only  of 
course  she'd  never  be  brave  enough  to  do  it  this  way. 
When  Eric  is  free,  we  will  marry  at  once  and  come 
home,  and,  you  will  see,  there  are  so  many  sensible 
people  nowadays;  we  shall  not  have  a  bad  time  at 
all.  Everything  will  come  right,  I'm  sure;  and  even 
if  it  didn't,  in  that  conventional  way  —  I  could  not 
give  him  up.  No  one  will  ever  love  me  as  he  does. 
"Your  devoted  child 

"MEG." 

That  was  the  first:  the  second  ran: 

"  DEAREST  NANCY,  —  I  know  you'll  think  it  fright 
fully  wrong;  you  are  such  an  old-fashioned  little 
dear  and  you  told  me  often  enough  that  I  oughtn't 
to  see  so  much  of  Eric.  Only  of  course  that  couldn't 
have  prepared  you  for  this  and  I  expect  Aunt  Mon 
ica  won't  let  you  come  and  stay  with  us  for  ages. 
Never  mind;  when  you  marry,  you'll  see,  I'm  sure. 


ADR1ENNE  TONER  147 

Love  is  the  only  thing,  really.  But  I  should  hate  to 
feel  I'd  lost  you  and  I'm  sure  I  haven't.  I  want  to 
ask  you,  Nancy  dear,  to  do  all  you  can  to  make 
Mother  take  it.  I  feel,  just  because  you  will  think 
it  so  wrong,  that  you  may  be  more  good  to  her  than 
Adrienne  —  who  doesn't  think  it  wrong  at  all  — 
at  least  not  in  Mother's  way.  It  would  be  fright 
fully  unfair  if  Mother  blamed  Adrienne.  She  did  all 
she  could  to  show  us  where  we  stood  and  to  make  us 
play  the  game,  and  it  would  be  pretty  hard  luck  if 
people  were  to  be  down  on  her  now  because  we  have 
played  it.  We  might  have  been  really  rotters  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Adrienne;  cheats  and  hypocrites,  I 
mean;  stealing  our  happiness.  I  know  Adrienne 
can  bring  Barney  round.  It's  only  Mother  who 
troubles  me,  just  because  she  is  such  a  child  that  it's 
almost  impossible  to  make  her  see  reason.  She 
doesn't  recognize  right  and  wrong  unless  they're  in 
the  boxes  she's  accustomed  to.  Everything  is  in  a 
box  for  poor,  darling  old  Mummy.  But  I  mustn't 
go  on.  Be  the  dear  old  pal  you  always  have  and 
help  me  out  as  well  as  you  can. 

"  Your  loving 

"  MEG." 

"Good  Lord,"  Oldmeadow  muttered  once  more. 
He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose  from  the  table  in 
the  bright  spring  sunlight.  He  had  the  feeling,  al 
most  paternal,  of  disgrace  and  a  public  stripping. 
He  saw  Eleanor  Chadwick  stopping  at  Meg's  door 
to  look  in  at  the  forsaken  room,  distraught  in  her 
grief  and  incomprehension.  He  saw  Nancy's  pale, 
troubled  face  and  Monica  Averil's,  pinched  and  dry 
in  its  sober  dismay.  And  then  again,  lighted  by  a 


148  ADRIENNE  TONER 

flare  at  once  tawdry  and  menacing,  the  face  of  Ad- 
rienne  Toner,  the  intruder,  the  insufferable  meddler 
and  destroyer,  a  Pierrot  among  fire-works  that  had, 
at  last,  set  fire  to  the  house.  He  found  a  taxi  on  the 
Embankment  and  drove  to  Connaught  Square. 
Freshly  decorated  with  window-boxes,  the  pleasant, 
spacious  house  had  a  specially  smiling  air  of  wel 
come,  but  the  butler's  demeanour  told  him  that 
something  of  the  calamity  had  already  penetrated. 
Adrienne,  if  she  had  not  heard  before,  would  have 
had  her  letters;  Barney,  who  had  been  kept  in  the 
dark,  would  have  been  enlightened,  and  the  irre 
pressible  exclamations  that  must  have  passed  be 
tween  them  seemed  dimly  reflected  on  the  man's 
formal  countenance.  Mrs.  Chadwick,  he  told  Old- 
meadow,  was  breakfasting  upstairs  with  Mr.  Chad- 
wick,  and  he  ushered  him  into  Barney's  study. 

Oldmeadow  waited  for  some  time  among  the  Post 
Impressionist  pictures,  one  of  which  remained  for 
ever  afterwards  vividly  fixed  in  his  memory  of  the 
moment ;  a  chaotic  yet  determined  picture ;  feature 
less  yet,  as  it  were,  conveying  through  its  unrecog 
nizable  elements  the  meaning  of  a  grin.  And,  as  he 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room  and  looked  away 
from  the  derisive  canvas,  he  saw  on  Barney's  desk 
photographs  of  Adrienne,  three  photographs  of  her; 
one  as  a  child,  a  sickly  looking  but  beaming  child; 
one  in  early  girlhood,  singularly  childlike  still;  and 
one  in  her  bridal  dress  of  only  the  other  day,  it 
seemed,  mild  and  radiant  in  her  unbecoming  veil 
and  wreath. 

It  was  Barney  who  came  to  him.  Poor  Barney. 
He  was  more  piteously  boyish  than  ever  before  to 
his  friend's  eye;  so  beautifully  arrayed,  all  in  readi- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  149 

ness  for  a  happy  London  day  with  his  angel,  so  pale, 
so  haggard  and  perplexed.  "Look  here,  Roger," 
were  his  first  words,  "do  you  mind  coming  upstairs 
to  Adrienne's  room?  She's  not  dressed  yet;  not  very 
well,  you  know.  You've  heard,  then,  too?" 

"I've  just  heard  from  Nancy.  Why  upstairs? 
I'd  rather  not.  We'd  better  talk  this  over  alone, 
Barney.  All  the  more  if  your  wife  isn't  well." 

"Yes;  yes;  I  know.  I  told  her  it  would  be  better. 
But  she  insists." 

The  effect  of  a  general  misery  Barney  gave  was 
heightened  now  by  his  unhappy  flush.  "She  doesn't 
want  us  to  talk  it  over  without  her,  you  see.  She 
comes  into  it  all  too  much.  From  Nancy,  did  you 
say?  What's  Nancy  got  to  do  with  this  odious 
affair? " 

"Only  what  Meg  has  put  upon  her  —  to  interpret 
her  as  kindly  as  she  can  to  your  mother.  Here  are 
the  letters.  I'd  really  rather  not  go  upstairs." 

"I  know  you'll  hold  Adrienne  responsible  — 
partly  at  least.  She  expects  that.  She  knows  that  I 
do,  too;  she's  quite  prepared.  I  only  heard  half  an 
hour  ago  and  of  course  it  knocked  me  up  frightfully. 
Meg!  My  little  sister!  Why  she's  hardly  more  than 
a  child!" 

"I'm  afraid  she's  a  good  deal  more  than  a  child. 
I'm  afraid  we  can't  hold  Meg  to  be  not  responsible, 
though,  obviously,  she'd  never  have  taken  such  a 
step  unaided  and  unabetted.  Just  read  these  letters, 
Barney;  it  won't  take  a  moment  to  decide  what's 
best  to  be  done.  I'll  go  down  to  your  mother  and 
you  must  be  off,  at  once,  to  Paris,  and  see  if  you 
can  fetch  Meg  back." 

But  after  Barney,  with  a  hesitating  hand  and  an 


150  ADRIENNE  TONER 

uncertain  glance,  had  taken  the  letters  and  begun 
to  read  them,  the  door  was  opened  with  decorous 
deliberation  and  Adrienne's  French  maid  appeared, 
the  tall,  sallow,  capable- looking  woman  whom  Old- 
meadow  remembered  having  seen  at  Coldbrooks  a 
year  ago. 

"Madame  requests  that  ces  Messieurs  should 
come  up  at  once;  she  awaits  them,"  Josephine  an 
nounced  in  unemphatic  but  curiously  potent  ac 
cents.  Adrienne's  potency,  indeed,  was  of  a  sort 
that  flowed  through  all  her  agents  and  Oldmeadow 
thought  that  he  detected,  in  the  melancholy  gaze 
bent  upon  Barney,  reprobation  for  his  failure  to 
attain  the  standard  set  for  him  by  a  devotion  whole 
hearted  and  reverential.  Mrs.  Chadwick,  he  re 
membered,  had  said  that  Adrienne's  maid  adored 
her. 

"Yes,  yes.  We're  coming  at  once,  Josephine," 
said  Barney.  Reading  the  letters  as  he  went,  he 
moved  to  the  door  and  Oldmeadow  found  himself, 
perforce,  following. 

He  had  not  yet  visited  the  morning-room  and 
even  before  his  eyes  rested  on  Adrienne  they  saw, 
hanging  above  her  head  where  she  sat  on  a  little 
sofa,  a  full-length  portrait  of  Mrs.  Toner;  in  white, 
standing  against  a  stone  balustrade  and  holding 
lilies;  seagulls  above  her  and  a  background  of  blue 
sea. 

Adrienne  was  also  in  white,  but  she  wore  over  her 
long,  loose  dress  a  little  jacket  of  pink  silk  edged 
with  swan's  down  and  the  lace  cap  falling  about  her 
neck  was  resetted  with  pink  ribbon.  It  was  curious 
to  see  her  in  this  almost  frivolous  array,  recalling 
the  shepherdess,  when  her  face  expressed,  for  the 


ADRIENNE  TONER  151 

first  time  in  his  experience  of  her,  an  anger  and  an 
agitation  all  the  more  apparent  for  its  control.  She 
was  pale  yet  flushed,  odd  streaks  of  colour  running 
up  from  her  throat  and  dying  in  the  pallor  of  her 
cheeks.  Her  condition  had  evidently  much  affected 
her  complexion  and  her  nose,  through  its  layer  of 
powder,  showed  a  pinched  and  reddened  tint.  It 
made  Oldmeadow  uncomfortable  to  look  at  her; 
her  mask  of  calm  was  held  at  such  a  cost;  she  was 
at  once  so  determinedly  herself  and  so  helplessly 
altered;  and  it  was  not  with  an  automatic  courtesy 
only  that  he  went  up  to  her  and  held  out  his  hand. 
An  impulse  of  irrelevant  yet  irrepressible  pity 
stirred  him. 

She  had  fixed  her  eyes  on  him  as  he  entered,  but 
now  looking  at  her  husband  and  not  moving,  she 
said:  "I  do  not  think  you  want  to  take  my  hand, 
Mr.  Oldmeadow.  You  will  think  me  a  criminal  too, 
as  Barney  does." 

"Darling!  Don't  talk  such  nonsense!"  Barney 
cried.  "I  haven't  blamed  you,  not  by  a  word.  I 
know  you've  done  what  you  think  right.  Look, 
darling ;  Roger  has  had  these  letters.  Just  read  them. 
You  see  what  Meg  writes  —  there  —  to  Nancy  — 
about  your  having  done  all  you  could  to  keep  them 
straight.  You  haven't  been  fair  to  yourself  in  talk 
ing  to  me  just  now." 

Adrienne,  without  speaking,  took  the  letters  and 
Oldmeadow  moved  away  to  the  window  and  stood 
looking  down  at  the  little  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
house  where  a  tall  almond-tree  delicately  and 
vividly  bloomed  against  the  pale  spring  sky.  He 
heard  behind  him  the  flicker  of  the  fire  in  the  grate, 
the  pacing  of  Barney's  footsteps  as  he  walked  up 


152  ADRIENNE  TONER 

and  down,  and  the  even  turning  of  the  pages  in  Ad- 
rienne's  hands.  Then  he  heard  her  say:  "Meg  con 
tradicts  nothing  that  I  have  said  to  you,  Barney. 
She  writes  bravely  and  truly;  as  I  knew  that  she 
would  write." 

Barney  stopped  in  his  pacing.  "But  darling; 
what  she  says  about  straightness?"  It  was  feeble 
of  Barney  and  he  must  know  it.  Feeble  of  him  even 
to  think  that  Adrienne  might  wish  to  avail  herself 
of  the  loophole  or  that  she  considered  herself  in  any 
need  of  a  shield. 

"You  can't  misunderstand  so  much  as  that,  Bar 
ney,"  she  said.  "  Meg  and  I  mean  but  one  thing  by 
straightness;  and  that  is  truth.  That  was  the  way  I 
tried  to  help  them ;  it  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  can 
ever  help  people.  I  showed  them  the  truth  and  kept 
it  before  their  eyes  when  they  were  in  danger  of  for 
getting  it.  I  said  to  them  that  if  they  were  to  be 
worthy  of  their  love  they  must  be  brave  enough  to 
make  sacrifices  for  it.  I  did  not  hide  from  them  that 
there  would  be  sacrifices  —  if  that  is  what  you 
mean." 

"It's  not  what  I  mean,  darling!  Of  course  it's 
not!"  broke  from  poor  Barney  almost  in  a  wail. 
"Didn't  you  try  at  all  to  dissuade  them?  Didn't 
you  show  them  that  it  was  desperate,  and  ruinous, 
and  wrong?  Didn't  you  tell  Meg  that  it  would 
break  Mother's  heart!" 

The  blue  ribbon  was  again  unrolled  and  Old- 
meadow,  listening  with  rising  exasperation,  heard 
that  the  sound  of  her  own  solemn  cadences  sus 
tained  her.  "I  don't  think  anything  in  life  is  des 
perate  or  ruinous  or  wrong,  Barney,  except  turning 
away  from  one's  own  light.  Meg  met  a  reality  and 


ADRIENNE  TONER  153 

was  brave  enough  to  face  it.  I  regret,  deeply,  that 
it  came  to  her  tragically,  not  happily ;  but  happiness 
can  grow  from  tragedy  if  we  are  brave  and  true  and 
Meg  is  brave  and  true  in  her  love.  It  won't  break 
your  mother's  heart.  Hers  is  a  small,  but  not  such 
a  feeble,  heart  as  that.  I  believe  that  the  experience 
may  strengthen  and  ennoble  her.  She  has  led  too 
sheltered  a  life." 

Oldmeadow  at  this  turned  from  the  window  and 
met  Barney's  miserable  eyes.  "There's  really  no 
reason  for  my  staying  on,  Barney,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  as  well  as  his  look  excluded  Adrienne  from 
their  interchange.  "I'll  take  the  1.45  to  Coldbrooks. 
What  shall  I  tell  your  mother?  That  you've  gone 
to  Paris  this  morning?" 

"Yes,  that  I've  gone  to  Paris.  That  I'll  do  my 
best,  you  know.  That  I  hope  to  bring  Meg  back. 
Tell  her  to  keep  up  her  courage.  It'll  only  be  a  day 
or  two  after  all,  and  we  may  be  able  to  hush  it  up." 

"Stop,  Mr.  Oldmeadow,"  said  Adrienne  in  a 
grave,  commanding  tone.  It  was  impossible  before 
it  to  march  out  of  the  room  and  shut  the  door, 
though  that  was  what  his  forcibly  arrested  attitude 
showed  that  he  wished  to  do.  "You  as  well  as  Bar 
ney  must  hear  my  protest,"  said  Adrienne,  and  she 
fixed  her  sombre  eyes  upon  him.  "Meg  is  with  the 
man  she  loves.  In  the  eyes  of  heaven  he  is  her  hus 
band.  It  would  be  real  as  contrasted  with  conven 
tional  disgrace  were  she  to  leave  him  now.  She  will 
not  leave  him.  I  know  her  better  than  you  do.  I  ask 
you"  —  her  gaze  now  turned  on  Barney  —  "I  de 
sire  you,  not  to  go  to  her  on  such  an  unworthy  er 
rand." 

"But,  Adrienne,"  Barney,  flushed  and  hesitating, 


154  ADRIENNE  TONER 

pleaded,  "it's  for  Mother's  sake.  Mother's  too  old 
to  be  enlarged  like  that  —  that's  really  nonsense, 
you  know,  darling.  You  see  what  Nancy  says.  They 
are  frightened  about  her.  It's  not  only  convention. 
It's  a  terrible  mistake  Meg's  made  and  she  may  be 
feeling  it  now  and  only  too  glad  to  have  the  way 
made  easy  for  her  to  come  back.  I  promise  you  to 
be  as  gentle  as  possible.  I  won't  reproach  her  in  any 
way.  I'll  tell  her  that  we're  all  only  waiting  to  for 
give  her  and  take  her  back." 

"Forgive  her,  Barney?  For  what?  It  is  only  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world  that  she  has  done  wrong  and  I 
have  lifted  her  above  that  fear.  Convention  does 
not  weigh  for  a  moment  with  me  beside  the  realities 
of  the  human  heart ;  nor  would  it  with  you,  Barney, 
if  it  were  not  for  the  influence  of  Mr.  Oldmeadow. 
I  have  warned  you  before;  it  is  easy  to  be  worldly- 
wise  and  cynical  and  to  keep  to  the  broad  road ;  it  is 
easy  to  be  safe.  But  withering  lies  that  way:  wither 
ing  and  imprisonment,  and  — 

"Come,  come,  Mrs.  Barney,"  Oldmeadow  inter 
posed,  addressing  her  for  the  first  time  and  acidly 
laughing.  "Really  we  haven't  time  for  sermons. 
You  oughtn't  to  have  obliged  me  to  come  up  if  you 
wanted  to  influence  Barney  all  by  yourself.  He  sees 
quite  clearly  for  himself  the  rights  and  the  wrongs 
of  this  affair,  as  it  happens.  If  I  were  to  preach  for 
a  moment  in  my  turn  I  might  ask  you  how  it  was 
that  you  didn't  see  that  it  was  your  duty  to  tell 
Meg's  mother  and  brother  how  things  were  going 
and  let  them  judge.  You're  not  as  wise  as  you  im 
agine  —  far  from  it.  Some  things  you  can't  judge 
at  all.  Meg  and  Hayward  aren't  people  of  enough 
importance  to  have  a  right  to  break  laws;  that's 


ADRIENNE  TONER  155 

all  that  it  comes  to;  there's  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
their  breaking  laws;  not  only  for  other  people,  but 
for  themselves.  They're  neither  of  them  capable  of 
being  happy  in  the  ambiguous  sort  of  life  they'd  have 
to  lead.  There's  a  reality  you  didn't  see  at  all  in 
your  haste  to  flout  convention.  Barney  could  have 
dealt  with  Hay  ward,  and  Meg  could  have  been 
packed  off  to  the  country  and  kept  there  till  she'd 
learned  to  think  a  little  more  about  other  people's 
hearts  and  a  little  less  about  her  own.  What  busi 
ness  had  you,  after  all,  to  have  secrets  from  your 
husband  and  to  plot  with  the  two  young  fools  be 
hind  his  back?  Isn't  Meg  his  sister  rather  than 
yours?"  His  bitterness  betrayed  him  and  conscious 
hostility  rose  in  him,  answering  the  menace  that 
measured  him  in  her  eyes.  "What  business  had  you, 
a  new-comer  among  us,  to  think  yourself  capable  of 
managing  all  their  lives  and  to  set  yourself  up  above 
them  all  in  wisdom?  You  take  too  much  upon  your 
self"  ;  his  lips  found  the  old  phrase:  "  Really  you  do. 
It's  been  your  mistake  from  the  beginning." 

He  could  not  have  believed  that  a  face  so  framed 
for  gentleness  could  show  itself  at  once  so  calm  and 
so  convulsed.  He  knew  that  something  had  hap 
pened  to  her  that  had  never  happened  to  her  before 
in  her  life.  She  kept  her  eyes  steadily  on  him  and  he 
wondered  if  she  were  not  reciting  some  incantation, 
some  exorcism,  derived  from  the  seagulled  lady 
above  her :  Power  in  Repose  —  Power  in  Love  — 
Power  in  Light.  Her  mouth  and  eyes  and  nostrils 
were  dark  on  her  pallor  and  he  felt  that  she  held 
back  all  the  natural  currents  of  her  being  in  order 
to  face  and  quell  him  with  the  supernatural. 

"Never    mind    all    that,    Roger,"    Barney    was 


156  ADRIENNE  TONER 

sickly  murmuring.    "I  don't  feel  like  that.    I  know 
Adrienne  didn't  for  a  moment  mean  to  deceive  me." 

"We  will  mind  it,  Barney,"  said  Adrienne,  breath 
ing  with  difficulty.  "I  had,  Mr.  Oldmeadow,  the 
business,  first,  of  loyalty  to  another  human  soul  who, 
in  the  crisis  of  its  destiny,  confided  in  me.  I  have 
been  nearer  Meg  than  any  of  you  have  guessed, 
from  my  first  meeting  with  her.  You  were  all  blind. 
I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  tossed  and  tormented. 
I  am  nearer,  far  nearer  her,  than  her  brother  and 
mother.  In  them  she  would  never  have  dreamed  of 
confiding  and  she  came  to  me  because  she  felt  that 
in  me  she  would  find  reality  and  in  them  mere  for 
mulas.  I  do  not  look  upon  women  as  chattels  to  be 
handed  about  by  their  male  relatives  and  locked  up 
if  they  do  not  love  according  to  rule  and  precedent. 
I  look  upon  them  as  the  equals  of  men  in  every  re 
spect,  as  free  as  men  to  shape  their  lives  and  to 
direct  their  destinies.  You  speak  a  mediaeval  lan 
guage,  Mr.  Oldmeadow.  The  world,  our  great, 
modern,  deep-hearted  world,  has  outstripped  you." 

"Darling,"  Barney  forestalled,  breathlessly,  as 
she  paused,  any  reply  that  Oldmeadow  might  have 
been  tempted  to  make,  "don't  mind  if  Roger  speaks 
harshly.  He's  like  that  and  no  one  cares  for  us  more. 
He  doesn't  mean  conventionality  at  all,  or  anything 
mediaeval.  You  don't  understand  him.  He  puts  his 
finger  on  the  spot  about  Meg  and  Hayward.  It's  ex 
actly  as  he  says;  they're  not  of  enough  importance 
to  have  a  right  to  break  laws.  If  you  could  have 
confided  in  me,  it  would  have  been  better;  you  must 
own  that.  We'd  have  given  Meg  a  chance  to  pull 
herself  together.  We'd  have  sent  Hayward  about 
his  business.  It's  a  question,  as  Roger  says,  of  your 


ADRIENNE  TONER  157 

wisdom;  of  your  knowledge  of  the  world.  You 
didn't  understand  them.  They're  neither  of  them 
idealists  like  you.  They  can't  be  happy  doing  what 
you  might  be  big  enough  to  do.  Just  because  they're 
not  big.  Try  to  take  it  in,  darling.  And  we  really 
needn't  go  on  talking  about  it  any  longer,  need  we? 
It  isn't  a  question  of  influence.  All  we  have  to  decide 
on  is  what's  to  be  done.  Roger  must  go  to  Mother 
and  tell  her  I'm  starting  this  morning  to  try  and 
fetch  Meg  back.  Imagine  Mother  with  a  divorce 
case  on!  It  would  kill  her,  simply.  That's  all.  Isn't 
it,  Roger?" 

"Stop,  Mr.  Oldmeadow,"  said  Adrienne,  again. 
She  rose  as  she  spoke.  As  he  saw  her  stand  before 
them,  her  approaching  maternity  dominated  for  a 
moment  all  his  impressions  of  her.  Veiled  and 
masked  adroitly  as  it  was,  its  very  uncouthness 
curiously  became  her.  Her  head,  for  once,  looked 
small.  Like  an  archaic  statue,  straight  and  short 
and  thick,  her  altered  form  had  dignity  and  ampli 
tude  and  her  face,  heavy  writh  its  menace,  hard  with 
its  control,  might  have  been  that  of  some  austere 
and  threatening  priestess  of  fruitfulness. 

"  Barney,  wait,"  she  said.  Her  arms  hung  straight 
beside  her,  but  she  slightly  lifted  a  hand  as  she  spoke 
and  Oldmeadow  noted  that  it  was  tightly  clenched. 
"  It  is  I,  not  your  friend,  whom  you  must  question  as 
to  what  it  is  right  that  you  should  do.  I  do  not  con 
sent  to  his  reading  of  my  unwisdom  and  unworthi- 
ness.  I  ask  you  not  to  consent  to  it.  I  ask  you  again 
not  to  go.  I  ask  you  again  to  respect  my  judgment 
rather  than  his." 

"Darling,"  the  unfortunate  husband  supplicated; 
"it's  not  because  it's  Roger's  judgment.  You  know 


158  ADRIENNE  TONER 

it's  what  I  felt  right  myself  —  from  the  moment  you 
told  me  what  had  happened.  You  say  people  must 
follow  their  own  light.  It  is  my  light.  I  must  do 
what  Mother  asks  and  try  to  bring  Meg  back." 

"  It  is  not  your  light,  Barney.  It  is  craft  and  cau 
tion  and  fear.  More  than  that,  do  you  not  see,  must 
I  make  plain  to  you  what  it  is  you  do  to  me  in  going? 
You  insult  me.  You  treat  what  I  have  believed  right 
for  Meg  to  do  as  a  crime  from  which  she  must  be 
rescued.  You  drag  me  in  the  dust  with  her.  Under 
stand  me,  Barney"  -the  streaks  of  colour  deep 
ened  on  her  neck,  her  breath  came  thickly  —  "if 
you  go,  you  drag  me  in  the  dust." 

"How  can  it  drag  you  in  the  dust,  Mrs.  Barney, 
if  Meg  wants  to  come  back?"  Oldmeadow  interposed 
in  the  tone  of  a  caustic  doctor  addressing  a  malinger 
ing  patient.  "We're  not  talking  of  crimes;  only  of 
follies.  Come;  be  reasonable.  Don't  make  it  so  pain 
ful  for  Barney  to  do  what's  his  plain  duty.  You're 
not  a  child.  You  have,  I  hope,  courage  enough  and 
humour  enough  to  own  that  you  can  make  mistakes 
—  like  other  people." 

"Yes,  yes,  Adrienne,  that's  just  it,"  broke  pain 
fully  from  Barney,  and,  as  he  seized  the  clue  thus 
presented  to  him,  Adrienne  turned  her  head  slowly, 
with  an  ominous  stillness,  and  again  rested  her  eyes 
upon  him.  "It's  childish,  you  know,  darling.  It's 
not  like  you.  And  of  course  I  understand  why;  and 
Roger  does.  You're  not  yourself;  you're  over 
strained  and  off-balance  and  I'm  so  frightfully  sorry 
all  this  has  fallen  upon  you  at  such  a  time.  I  don't 
want  to  oppose  you  in  anything,  darling  —  do  try  to 
believe  me.  Only  you  must  give  me  the  credit  for 
my  own  convictions.  I  do  feel  I  must  go.  I  do  feel 


ADRIENNE  TONER  159 

Roger  must  take  that  message  to  Mother.  After  all, 
darling,"  and  now  in  no  need  of  helping  clues  he 
found  his  own  and  the  irrepressible  note  of  grief 
vibrated  in  his  voice,  "you  do  owe  me  something, 
don't  you?  You  do  owe  us  all  something  —  to  make 
up,  I  mean.  Because,  without  you,  Meg  would 
never  have  behaved  like  this  and  disgraced  us  all. 
Oh  —  I  don't  mean  to  reproach  you!" 

"Good-bye  then,  I'm  off,"  said  Oldmeadow. 
"I'm  very  sorry  you  made  me  come  up.  Good-bye, 
Mrs.  Barney."  She  had  not  spoken,  nor  moved,  nor 
turned  her  eyes  from  Barney's  face. 

"Good-bye.  Thanks  so  much,  Roger."  Barney 
followed  him,  with  a  quickness  to  match  his  own,  to 
the  door.  But  Adrienne,  this  time,  did  not  call  him 
back.  She  remained  standing  stock-still  in  front  of 
her  sofa. 

"Tell  Mother  I'm  off,"  said  Barney,  grasping  his 
hand.  "Tell  her  she'll  hear  at  once,  as  soon  as  I 
know  anything.  Thanks  so  awfully,"  he  repeated. 
"You've  been  a  great  help." 

It  was  unfortunate,  perhaps,  that  Barney  should 
say  that,  Oldmeadow  reflected  as  he  sped  down  the 
stairs.  "  But  she's  met  reality  at  last,"  he  muttered, 
wondering  how  she  and  Barney  faced  each  other 
above  and  hearing  again  the  words  that  must  echo 
so  strangely  in  her  ears:  "Disgraced  us  all."  And, 
mingled  with  his  grim  satisfaction,  was,  again,  the 
sense  of  irrelevant  and  reluctant  pity. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  was  Saturday  and  he  had  to  wire  to  Mrs.  Aldesey 
that  he  could  not  go  with  her  next  day  to  the  Queen's 
Hall  concert  they  had  planned  to  hear  together. 

Nancy  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  station  in  her 
own  little  pony-cart  and  as  he  got  in  she  said:  "Is 
Barney  gone?" 

"Yes;  he'll  have  gone  by  now,"  said  Oldmeadow 
and,  as  he  said  it,  he  felt  a  sudden  sense  of  relief  and 
clarity.  The  essential  thing,  he  saw  it  as  he  answered 
Nancy's  question,  was  that  he  should  be  able  to  say 
that  Barney  had  gone.  And  he  knew  that  if  he 
hadn't  been  there  to  back  him  up,  he  wouldn't  have 
gone.  So  that  was  all  right,  wasn't  it? 

As  he  had  sped  past  the  sun-swept  country  the 
reluctant  pity  had  struggled  in  him,  striving,  unsuc 
cessfully,  to  free  itself  from  the  implications  of  that 
horrid  word:  "Disgraced."  It  was  Adrienne  who 
had  disgraced  them ;  that  was  what  Barney's  phrase 
had  really  meant,  though  he  hadn't  intended  it  to 
mean  it.  She,  the  stranger,  the  new-comer,  had  dis 
graced  them.  And  it  was  true.  Yet  he  wished  Bar 
ney  hadn't  stumbled  on  the  phrase  —  just  because 
she  was  a  stranger  and  a  new-comer.  And  Barney 
would  never  have  found  it  had  he  not  been  there. 
But  now  came  the  sense  of  relief.  If  he  hadn't  been 
there,  Barney  wouldn't  have  gone. 

"Aunt  Eleanor  is  longing  to  see  you,"  said  Nancy. 
"Her  one  hope,  you  know,  is  that  he  may  bring  Meg 
back."  Nancy's  eyes  had  a  strained  look,  as  though 
she  had  lain  awake  all  night. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  161 

"You  think  she  may  come  back?" 

He  felt,  himself,  unable  to  form  any  conjectures  as 
to  what  Meg  was  likely  to  do.  What  she  had  done 
was  so  strangely  unlike  her. 

"Not  if  it  means  leaving  Captain  Hayward  for 
good,"  said  Nancy.  "But  Aunt  Eleanor  and  Mother 
both  think  that  she  may  be  willing  to  come  till  they 
can  marry." 

"That's  better  than  nothing,  isn't  it,"  said  Old- 
meadow,  and  Nancy  then  surprised  him  by  saying, 
as  she  looked  round  at  him:  "I  don't  want  her  to 
come  back." 

"Don't  want  her  to  come  back?  But  you  wanted 
Barney  to  go?" 

"Yes.  He  had  to  go.  Just  so  that  everything 
might  be  done.  So  that  it  might  be  put  before  her. 
And  to  satisfy  Aunt  Eleanor.  But,  don't  you  see, 
Roger,  it  would  really  make  it  far  more  difficult  for 
Aunt  Eleanor  to  have  her  here.  What  would  she  do 
with  her?  —  since  she  won't  give  up  Captain  Hay- 
ward  ?  She  can  love  Meg  and  grieve  and  yearn  over 
her  now.  But  if  she  were  here  she  couldn't.  It  would 
be  all  grief  and  bitterness." 

Nancy  had  evidently  been  thinking  to  some  pur 
pose  during  her  sleepless  night  and  he  owned  that 
her  conclusion  was  the  sound  one.  What  discon 
certed  him  was  her  assurance  that  Meg  would  not 
leave  her  lover.  After  Adrienne,  Nancy  was  likely  to 
have  the  most  authentic  impressions  of  Meg's  atti 
tude;  and,  as  they  drove  towards  Chelford,  he  was 
further  disconcerted  by  hearing  her  murmur,  half  to 
herself:  "  It  would  be  silly  to  leave  him  now,  wouldn't 
it." 

"Not  if  she's  sorry  and  frightened  at  what  she's 


162  ADRIENNE  TONER 

done,"  he  protested.  "After  all  the  man's  got  a  wife 
who  may  be  glad  to  have  him  back." 

But  Nancy  said :  "  I  don't  think  she  would.  I  think 
she'll  be  glad  not  to  have  him  back.  Meg  may  be 
frightened;  but  I  don't  believe  she'll  be  sorry;  yet." 

He  meditated,  somewhat  gloomily,  as  they  drove, 
on  the  unexpectedness  of  the  younger  generation. 
He  had  never  thought  of  Nancy  as  belonging,  in  any 
but  the  chronological  sense,  to  that  category;  yet 
here  she  was,  accepting,  if  not  condoning,  the  rebel 
lion  against  law  and  morality. 

Mrs.  Averil  had  driven  down  to  the  Little  House 
where  she  was  to  be  picked  up  and,  as  they  turned 
the  corner  to  the  Green,  they  saw  her  waiting  at  the 
gate,  her  furs  turned  up  around  her  ears,  her  neat 
little  face  pinched  and  dry,  as  he  had  known  that  he 
would  find  it,  and  showing  a  secure  if  controlled 
indignation,  rather  than  Nancy's  sad  perplexity. 

"Well,  Roger,  you  find  us  in  a  pleasant  predica 
ment,"  she  observed  as  Oldmeadow  settled  the  rug 
around  her  knees.  "Somehow  one  never  thinks  of 
things  like  this  happening  in  one's  own  family.  Vil 
lage  girls  misbehave  and  people  in  the  next  county 
run  away  sometimes  with  other  people's  wives;  but 
one  never  expects  such  adventures  to  come  walking 
in  to  one's  own  breakfast- table." 

"  Disagreeable  things  do  have  a  way  of  happen 
ing  at  breakfast-time,  don't  they,"  Oldmeadow  as 
sented.  The  comfort  of  Mrs.  Averil  was  that  even 
on  her  death-bed  she  would  treat  her  own  funeral 
lightly:  "I  wonder  it  remains  such  a  comfortable 
meal,  all  the  same." 

"I  suppose  you've  had  lunch  on  the  train,"  said 
Mrs.  Averil.  "Will  you  believe  it?  Poor  Eleanor 


ADRIENNE  TONER  163 

was  worrying  about  that  this  morning.  She's  got 
some  coffee  and  sandwiches  waiting  for  you,  in  case 
you  haven't.  I'm  so  thankful  you've  come.  It  will 
help  her.  Poor  dear.  She's  begun  to  think  of  all  the 
other  things  now.  Of  what  people  will  say  and  how 
they  will  hear.  Lady  Cockerell  is  very  much  on  her 
mind.  You  know  what  a  meddlesome  gossip  she  is, 
and  only  the  other  day  Eleanor  snubbed  her  when 
she  was  criticizing  Barbara's  new  school.  The 
thought  of  her  is  disturbing  her  dreadfully  now." 

"I  suppose  these  leech-bites  do  help  to  alleviate 
the  pain  of  the  real  wound,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  They  envenom  it,"  Mrs.  Averil 
replied.  "I'd  like  to  strangle  Lady  Cockerell  myself 
before  the  news  reaches  her." 

Nancy  drove  on,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  pony's  ears. 
"I  don't  believe  people  will  talk  nearly  as  much  as 
you  and  Aunt  Eleanor  imagine,"  she  now  remarked. 
"I've  told  her  so;  and  so  must  you,  Mother." 

"You  are  admirable  with  her,  Nancy.  Far  better 
than  I  am.  I  sit  grimly  swallowing  my  curses,  or 
wringing  my  hands.  Neither  wringing  nor  cursing  is 
much  good,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  good.  It's  better  she  should  think  of 
what  people  say  than  of  Meg;  but  when  it  comes  to 
agonizing  over  them  I  believe  the  truth  is  that  peo 
ple  nowadays  do  get  over  it ;  far  more  than  they  used 
to;  especially  if  Aunt  Eleanor  can  show  them  that 
she  gets  over  it." 

"But  she  can't  get  over  it,  my  dear  child! "  said 
Mrs.  Averil,  gazing  at  her  daughter  in  a  certain 
alarm.  "How  can  one  get  over  disgrace  like  that  or 
lift  one's  head  again  —  unless  one  is  an  Adrienne 
Toner!  Oh,  when  I  think  of  that  woman  and  of  what 


1 64  ADRIENNE  TONER 

she's  done!  For  she  is  responsible  for  it  all !  Every 
bit  of  it.  Meg  was  a  good  girl,  at  heart ;  always.  In 
spite  of  that  silly  liquid  powder.  And  so  I  tell 
Eleanor.  Adrienne  is  responsible  for  it  all." 

"I  don't,  Mother;  that's  not  my  line  at  all,"  said 
Nancy.  "I  tell  her  that  what  Meg  says  is  true." 
Nancy  touched  the  pony  with  the  whip.  "If  it 
hadn't  been  for  Adrienne  she  might  have  done  much 
worse." 

"Really,  my  dear!"  Mrs.  Averil  murmured. 

"Come,  Nancy,"  Oldmeadow  protested;  "that 
was  a  retrospective  threat  of  Meg's.  Without  Adri 
enne  she'd  never  have  considered  such  an  adventure 
-  or  its  worse  alternative.  Encourage  your  aunt  to 
curse  Adrienne.  Your  Mother's  instinct  is  sound 
there." 

But  Nancy  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know, 
Roger,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  Meg  would  have  con 
sidered  the  alternative.  Girls  do  consider  all  sorts  of 
things  nowadays  that  Mother  and  Aunt  Eleanor,  in 
their  girlhood,  would  have  thought  simply  wicked. 
They  are  wicked;  but  not  simply.  That's  the  differ 
ence  between  now  and  then.  And  don't  you  think 
that  it's  better  for  Meg  and  Captain  Hayward  to  go 
away  so  that  they  can  be  married  than  to  be,  as  she 
says,  really  rotters;  than  to  be,  as  she  says,  cheats 
and  hypocrites  and  steal  their  happiness?" 

"My  dear  child!"  Mrs.  Averil  again  murmured, 
while  Oldmeadow,  finding  it,  after  all,  a  comfort  to 
have  a  grown-up  Nancy  to  discuss  it  with,  said, 
"My  contention  is  that,  left  to  herself,  Meg  would 
have  thought  them  both  wicked." 

"Perhaps,"  Nancy  said  again;  "but  even  old- 
fashioned  girls  did  things  they  knew  to  be  wicked 


ADRIENNE  TONER  165 

sometimes.  The  difference  Adrienne  has  made  is 
that  Meg  doesn't  think  herself  wicked  at  all.  She 
thinks  herself  rather  noble.  And  that's  what  I  mean 
about  Aunt  Eleanor.  It  will  comfort  her  if  she  can 
feel  a  little  as  Adrienne  feels  —  that  Meg  isn't  one 
bit  the  worse,  morally,  for  what  she's  done." 

"Are  you  trying  to  persuade  us  that  Meg  isn't 
guilty,  my  dear?"  Mrs.  Averil  inquired  dryly.  "Are 
you  trying  to  persuade  us  that  Adrienne  has  done  us 
all  a  service?  You  surely  can't  deny  that  she's  be 
haved  atrociously,  and  first  and  foremost,  to  Barney. 
Barney  could  have  known  nothing  about  it,  and  can 
you  conceive  a  woman  keeping  such  a  thing  from  her 
husband?" 

But  Nancy  was  feeling  the  pressure  of  her  own 
realizations  and  was  not  to  be  scolded  out  of  them. 
"  If  Meg  is  guilty,  and  doesn't  know  it,  she  will  suffer 
dreadfully  when  she  finds  out,  won't  she?  It  all 
depends  on  whether  she  has  deceived  herself  or  not, 
doesn't  it?  I'm  not  justifying  her  or  Adrienne, 
Mother;  only  trying  to  see  the  truth  about  them. 
How  could  Adrienne  tell  Barney  when  it  was  Meg's 
secret?  We  may  feel  it  wrong;  but  she  thought  she 
was  justified."  The  colour  rose  in  Nancy's  cheek  as 
she  named  Barney,  but  she  kept  her  tired  eyes  on 
her  mother  and  added,  "I  don't  believe  it  was  easy 
for  her  to  keep  it  from  him." 

"My  dear,  anything  is  easy  for  her  that  flatters 
her  self-importance!"  cried  Mrs.  Averil  impatiently. 
"I'll  own,  if  you  like,  that  she's  more  fool  than 
knave  —  as  Meg  may  be ;  though  Meg  never  struck 
me  as  a  fool.  Things  haven't  changed  so  much  since 
my  young  days  as  all  that;  it's  mainly  a  matter  of 
names.  If  girls  who  behave  like  Meg  find  it  pleas- 


i66  ADRIENNE  TONER 

anter  to  be  called  fools  than  knaves,  they  are  wel 
come  to  the  alternative.  Noble  they  never  were  nor 
will  be,  whatever  the  fashion." 

Oldmeadow  did  not  want  the  sandwiches,  so,  as 
soon  as  they  reached  Coldbrooks,  he  was  led  up 
stairs  to  Mrs.  Chadwick's  room.  He  found  his  poor 
friend  lying  on  the  sofa,  the  blinds  drawrn  down  and 
a  wet  handkerchief  on  her  forehead.  She  burst  out 
crying  as  he  entered.  Oldmeadow  sat  down  beside 
her  and  took  her  hand  and,  as  he  listened  to  her  sobs, 
felt  that  he  need  not  trouble  to  pity  Adrienne. 

"What  I  cannot,  cannot  understand,  Roger,"  she 
was  at  last  able  to  say,  and  he  realized  that  it  was  of 
Adrienne,  not  Meg,  that  she  was  speaking,  "is  how 
she  can  bear  to  treat  us  so.  We  all  loved  and  trusted 
her.  You  know  how  I  loved  her,  Roger.  I  felt  Meg 
as  safe  in  her  hands  as  in  my  own.  Oh,  that  wicked, 
wicked  man!  I  hardly  know  him  by  sight.  That 
makes  it  all  so  much  more  dreadful.  All  I  do  know  is 
that  his  wife  is  a  daughter  of  poor  Evelyn  Madder- 
ley,  who  broke  her  back  out  hunting." 

"I  don't  believe  there's  much  harm  in  him,  you 
know,"  Oldmeadow  suggested.  "And  I  believe  that 
he  is  sincerely  devoted  to  Meg." 

"Harm,  Roger!"  poor  Mrs.  Chadwick  wailed, 
"when  he  is  a  married  man  and  Meg  only  a  girl! 
Oh,  if  there  is  harm  in  anything  there  is  in  that! 
Running  away  with  a  girl  and  ruining  her  life!  Bar 
ney  will  make  him  feel  what  he  has  done.  Barney 
has  gone?" 

"  Yes,  he's  gone,  and  I  am  sure  we  can  rely  on  him 
to  speak  his  mind  to  Hayward." 

"And  don't  you  think  he  may  bring  Meg  back, 
Roger?  Nancy  says  I  must  not  set  my  mind  on  it; 


ADRIENNE  TONER  167 

but  don't  you  think  she  may  be  repenting  already? 
My  poor  little  Meg!  She  was  hot-tempered  and 
could  speak  very  crossly  if  she  was  thwarted ;  but  I 
think  of  her  incessantly  as  she  was  when  she  was  a 
tiny  child.  Self-willed;  but  so  sweet  and  coaxing  in 
her  ways,  with  beautiful  golden  hair  and  those  dark 
eyes  I  always  thought  of  Meg,  with  her  beauty,  as 
sure  to  marry  happily;  near  us,  I  hoped"  -  Mrs. 
Chadwick  began  to  sob  again.  "And  now !  —  Will  he 
find  them  in  Paris?  Will  they  not  have  moved  on?" 

"In  any  case  he'll  be  able  to  follow  them  up.  I 
don't  imagine  they'll  think  of  hiding." 

" No;  I'm  afraid  they  won't.  That  is  the  worst  of 
it !  They  won't  hide  and  every  one  will  come  to  know 
and  then  what  good  will  there  be  in  her  coming 
back!  If  only  I'd  had  her  presented  last  year,  Roger! 
She  can  never  go  to  court  now,"  Mrs.  Chadwick 
wept,  none  the  less  piteously  for  her  triviality.  "To 
think  that  Francis's  daughter  cannot  go  to  court! 
She  would  have  looked  so  beautiful,  with  my  pearls 
and  the  feathers.  The  feathers  are  becoming  to  so 
few  girls.  Nancy  could  not  wear  them  nearly  so  well. 
Nancy  can  go  and  my  daughter  can't!" 

"I  don't  think  the  lack  of  feathers  will  weigh 
seriously  upon  Meg's  future,  my  dear  friend." 

"Oh,  but  it's  what  they  stand  for,  Roger,  that  will 
weigh!"  Mrs.  Chadwick,  even  in  her  grief,  retained 
her  shrewdness.  <:  It's  easy  to  laugh  at  the  feathers, 
i)ut  you  might  really  as  well  laugh  at  wedding-rings ! 
To  think  that  Francis's  daughter  is  travelling  about 
with  a  man  and  without  a  wedding-ring !  Or  do  you 
suppose  they'll  have  thought  of  it  and  bought  one? 
It  would  be  a  lie,  of  course ;  but  don't  you  think  that 
a  lie  would  be  justifiable  under  the  circumstances?" 


168  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"  I  don't  think  it  really  makes  any  difference,  until 
they  can  come  home  and  be  married." 

"I  suppose  she  must  marry  him  now  —  if  they 
won't  hide  —  and  will  be  proud  of  what  they've 
done ;  she  seems  quite  proud  of  it !  —  everyone  will 
hear,  so  that  they  will  have  to  marry.  Oh  —  I  don't 
know  what  to  hope  or  what  to  fear!  How  can  you 
expect  me  to  have  tea,  Nancy!"  she  wept,  as  Nancy 
entered  carrying  the  little  tray.  "It's  so  good  of 
you,  my  dear,  but  how  can  I  eat? —  I  can  hardly 
face  the  servants,  Roger.  They  will  all  hear.  And 
Meg  was  always  such  a  pet  of  Johnson's;  his  favour 
ite  of  all  my  children.  He  used  to  give  her  very  rich, 
unwholesome  things  in  the  pantry  and  once,  when 
her  father  punished  her  for  disobeying  him  and  put 
her  in  the  corner,  in  the  drawing-room,  one  day, 
after  lunch,  Johnson  nearly  dropped  the  coffee,  when 
he  came  in.  It  upset  him  dreadfully  and  he  would 
hardly  speak  to  Francis  for  a  week  afterwards.  I 
know  he  will  think  it  all  our  fault,  when  he  hears, 
now.  And  so  it  is,  for  having  trusted  to  a  stranger. 
I  can't  drink  tea,  Nancy." 

"Yes,  you  can,  for  Meg's  sake,  Aunt  Eleanor,  and 
eat  some  tea-cake,  too,"  said  Nancy.  "  If  you  aren't 
brave  for  her,  who  will  be.  And  you  can't  be  brave 
unless  you  eat.  I  remember  so  well,  when  I  was  little, 
Uncle  Francis  saying  that  when  it  came  to  the  pinch 
you  were  the  bravest  woman  he  knew.  You'll  see, 
darling;  it  will  all  come  out  better  than  you  fear. 
Johnson  and  all  of  us  will  help  you  to  make  it  come 
out  better." 

"She  is  such  a  comfort  to  me,  Roger,"  said  Mrs. 
Chadwick  with  a  summoned  smile.  "Somehow, 
when  I  see  her,  I  feel  that  things  will  come  out  bet- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  169 

ter.  You  will  have  to  go  to  court,  dear,  next  spring. 
We  can't  have  none  of  our  girls  going.  And  you  shall 
wear  my  pearls."  Mrs.  Chad  wick's  tears  fell,  but  she 
took  up  the  tea-cup. 

Nancy  more  and  more  was  striking  Oldmeadow 
as  the  wisest  person  in  the  house.  He  walked  with 
her  on  the  terrace  after  tea ;  it  was  an  old  custom  of 
his  and  Nancy's  to  step  outside  then,  whatever  the 
weather,  and  have  a  few  turns.  This  was  a  clear, 
chill  evening  and  Nancy  had  wrapped  a  woollen 
scarf  closely  round  her  neck  and  shoulders.  Her 
chin  was  sunken  in  its  folds  as  she  held  it  together 
on  her  breast,  and  with  her  dropped  profile,  her  sad, 
meditative  eyes,  it  was  as  if  she  saw  a  clue  and, 
far  more  clearly  than  he  did,  knew  where  they  all 
stood. 

"Adrienne  was  bitterly  opposed  to  Barney's  go 
ing,"  he  said.  "She  seemed  unable  to  grasp  the  fact 
that  she  herself  had  been  in  error." 

Nancy  turned  her  eyes  on  him.  "Did  Barney  tell 
you  she  was  bitterly  opposed?" 

"He  didn't  tell  me.  I  was  with  them.  It  was  most 
unfortunate.  She  insisted  on  my  coming  up." 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Nancy.  She  even  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  face  him  with  her  dismay.  "Yes,  I  see," 
she  then  said,  walking  on,  "she  would." 

"Why  would  she?  Unless  she  was  sure  of  getting 
her  own  way?  The  only  point  in  having  me  up  was 
to  show  me  that  she  could  always  get  her  own  way 
with  Barney." 

"Of  course.  And  to  make  it  quite  clear  to  herself, 
too.  She's  not  afraid  of  you,  Roger.  She's  not  afraid 
of  anything  but  Barney." 

"1  don't  think  she  had  any  reason  to  be  afraid  of 


170  ADRIENNE  TONER 

him  this  morning.  He  was  badly  upset,  of  course. 
But  if  I  hadn't  gone  up,  I  imagine  she'd  have  kept 
him  from  going.  And  you  own  that  that  would  have 
been  a  pity,  don't  you?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes.  He  had  to  go,"  said  Nancy,  ab 
sently.  And  she  added.  "  Were  you  very  rough  and 
scornful?" 

"  Rough  and  scornful  ?  I  don't  think  so.  I  think  I 
kept  my  temper  very  well,  considering  all  things.  I 
showed  her  pretty  clearly,  I  suppose,  that  I  con 
sidered  her  a  meddling  ass.  I  don't  suppose  she'll 
forgive  me  easily  for  that." 

"Well,  you  can't  wonder  at  it,  can  you?"  said 
Nancy.  "Especially  if  she  suspects  that  you  made 
Barney  consider  her  one,  too." 

"But  it's  necessary,  isn't  it,  that  she  should  be 
made  to  suspect  it  herself?  I  don't  wonder  at  her 
not  forgiving  me  for  showing  her  up  before  Barney, 
and  upholding  him  against  her,  but  I  do  wonder  that 
one  can  never  make  her  see  she's  wrong.  It's  that 
that's  so  really  monstrous  about  her." 

"  Do  you  think  that  anyone  can  ever  make  us  see 
we  are  wrong  unless  they  love  us?"  Nancy  asked. 

"Well,  Barney  loves  her,"  said  Oldmeadow  after 
a  moment. 

"Yes;  but  he's  afraid  of  her,  too,  isn't  he?  He'd 
never  have  quite  the  courage  to  try  and  make  her 
see,  would  he?  —  off  his  own  bat  I  mean.  He'd 
never  really  have  quite  the  courage  to  see,  himself, 
how  wrong  she  was,  unless  he  were  angry.  And  to 
have  anyone  who  is  angry  with  you  trying  to  make 
you  see,  only  pushes  you  further  and  further  back 
into  yourself,  doesn't  it,  and  away  from  seeing?" 

"You've  grown  very  wise  in  the  secrets  of  the 


ADRIENNE  TONER  171 

human  heart,  my  dear,"  Oldmeadow  observed. 
"It's  true.  He  hasn't  courage  with  her  —  unless 
some  one  is  there  to  give  it  to  him.  But,  you  know, 
I  don't  think  she'd  forgive  him  if  he  had.  I  don't 
think  she'd  forgive  anyone  who  made  her  see." 

"I  don't  know,"  Nancy  pondered.  "I  don't  love 
her,  yet  I  feel  as  if  I  understood  her ;  better,  perhaps, 
than  you  do.  I  think  she's  good,  you  know.  I  mean, 
I  think  she  might  be  good,  if  she  could  ever  see." 

"She's  too  stupid  ever,  really,  to  see,"  said  Old- 
meadow,  and  it  was  with  impatience.  "She's  en 
cased  in  self-love  like  a  rhinoceros  in  its  hide.  One 
can't  penetrate  anywhere.  You  say  she's  afraid  of 
Barney  and  I  can't  imagine  what  you  mean  by  that. 
It's  true,  when  I'm  by,  she's  afraid  of  losing  his 
admiration.  But  that's  not  being  afraid  of  him." 

Nancy  still  pondered;  but  not,  now,  in  any  per 
plexity.  "She's  afraid  because  she  cares  so  much. 
She's  afraid  because  she  can  care  so  much.  It's 
difficult  to  explain ;  but  I  feel  as  if  I  understood  her. 
She's  never  cared  so  much  before  for  just  one  other 
person.  It's  always  been  for  people  altogether;  and 
because  she  was  doing  something  for  them.  But 
Barney  does  something  for  her.  He  makes  her 
happy.  Perhaps  she  never  knew  before  what  it  was 
to  be  really  happy.  You  know,  she  didn't  give  me 
the  feeling  of  a  really  happy  person.  It's  some 
thing  quite,  quite  new  for  her.  It  makes  her  feel 
uncertain  of  herself  and  almost  bewildered  some 
times.  Oh,  I'm  sure  of  it  the  more  I  think  of  it.  And 
you  know,  sometimes,"  Nancy  turned  her  deep, 
sweet  eyes  on  him,  "I  feel  very  sorry  for  her, 
Roger.  I  can't  help  it;  although  I  don't  love  her  at 
all." 


172  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Yes.  It  must  be  true.  Though  he  had  seen  Ad- 
rienne's  vanity  rather  than  her  love.  Nancy  and 
Meg  were  united  in  their  assurance  and  that  must 
be,  he  saw,  because  they  both,  in  their  so  different 
ways,  knew  what  it  was  to  care;  to  care  so  much 
that  you  were  frightened.  It  was  strange  that  the 
pang  of  pity  that  came  with  his  new  perception 
should  be  for  Adrienne  rather  than  for  his  dear  little 
Nancy  herself.  Nancy  had  suffered,  he  knew,  and 
her  life  was  perhaps  permanently  scarred;  yet, 
clear-eyed  and  unduped,  he  saw  her  as  mistress  of 
the  very  fate  that  had  maimed  her.  Whereas  Ad 
rienne  was  blindfolded ;  a  creature  swayed  and  sur 
rounded  by  forces  of  which  she  was  unaware. 

Nancy  had  deepened  his  sense  of  perplexity,  his 
sense  of  taking  refuge  from  something,  and  what  it 
was  came  fully  upon  him  that  night  when  he  was  at 
last  alone.  Meg  and  her  misdemeanour  sank  into  a 
mere  background  for  the  image  of  the  cold,  con 
vulsed  face  that  he  had  seen  that  morning.  Almost 
angrily  he  felt  himself  pushing  it  back,  pushing  it 
down,  as  if  he  pushed  it  down  to  drown,  and  again 
and  again  it  re-emerged  to  look  at  him. 

He  fell  asleep  at  last;  but  as,  a  year  ago,  on  the 
first  night  of  his  meeting  with  her,  he  had  dreamed 
of  her,  so  to-night  he  dreamed  again. 

He  did  not  see  her,  but  she  was  in  some  dreadful 
plight  and  the  sense  of  her  panic  and  bewilderment 
broke  upon  him  in  shocks  of  suffering.  He  could  not 
see  her,  but  he  was  aware  of  her,  horribly  aware. 
All  remained  a  broken,  baffled  confusion,  but  it  was 
as  though,  unable  to  shape  and  assert  itself,  he  yet 
felt  her  very  being  wrestling  with  extinction. 

The  sharpness  had  gone  out  of  the  sunlight  next 


ADRIENNE  TONER  173 

day  and  Mrs.  Chad  wick  consented  to  come  and  sit 
with  them  in  the  warmest  corner  of  the  garden,  the 
corner  where,  a  year  ago,  Oldmeadow  remembered, 
Meg  had  sat  with  him  and  explained  to  him  the 
secret  of  Adrienne's  power.  Pitifully,  with  swollen 
eyes  and  trembling  fingers,  Mrs.  Chadwick  resumed 
her  interrupted  stocking  while  Oldmeadow  read 
aloud  from  a  Sunday  paper  the  leading  article  on 
the  critical  situation  in  Ireland.  "I  suppose  every 
one  in  London  will  be  talking  about  Ulster  and  Sir 
Edward  Carson,  won't  they?"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick, 
and  it  was  evident  that  she  derived  a  dim  comfort 
from  the  thought.  The  situation  in  Ireland,  Old- 
meadow  reflected,  had,  at  all  events,  been  of  so  much 
service. 

Upon  this  quiet  scene  there  broke  suddenly  the 
sound  of  a  motor's  horn  and  a  motor's  wheels 
turned  into  the  front  entrance. 

Mrs.  Chadwick  dropped  her  stocking  and  laid  her 
hand  on  Nancy's  arm.  "  Dear  Aunt  Eleanor  —  you 
know  he  couldn't  possibly  be  back  yet,"  said  Nancy. 
"And  if  it's  anyone  to  call,  Johnson  knows  you're 
not  at  home." 

"Lady  Cockerell  is  capable  of  anything.  She 
might  sit  down  in  the  hall  and  wait.  She  must  have 
heard  by  now,"  poor  Mrs.  Chadwick  murmured. 
"That  married  girl  of  hers  in  London  must  have 
written.  With  the  projecting  teeth." 

'T'll  soon  get  rid  of  her,  if  it's  really  she,"  said 
Mrs.  Averil;  but  she  had  hardly  risen  when  the  door 
at  the  back  of  the  house  opened  and  they  saw  John 
son  usher  forth  a  hurrying  female  figure,  obviously 
not  Lady  Cockerell's;  a  figure  so  encumbered  by  its 
motoring  wraps,  so  swathed  in  veils,  that  only  Mrs. 


174  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Chadwick's  ejaculation  enlightened  Oldmeadow  as 
to  its  identity. 

"Josephine!"  cried  Mrs.  Chadwick  and  then,  be 
tween  the  narrow  framing  of  purple  gauze,  he  rec 
ognized  the  dramatic,  melancholy  eyes  and  pale, 
pinched  lips  of  Adrienne's  maid. 

"Oh,  Madame!  Madame!"  Josephine  was  ex 
claiming  as  she  came  towards  them  down  the  path. 
Her  face  wore  the  terrible  intensity  of  expression  so 
alien  to  the  British  countenance.  "Oh,  Madame! 
Madame!"  she  repeated.  They  had  all  risen  and 
stood  to  await  her.  "He  is  dead!  The  little  child  is 
dead !  And  she  is  alone.  Monsieur  left  her  yesterday. 
Quite,  quite  alone,  and  her  child  born  dead." 

Mrs.  Chadwick  faced  her  in  pallid  stupefaction. 

"The  baby,  Aunt  Eleanor,"  said  Nancy,  for  she 
looked  indeed  as  if  she  had  not  understood.  "Bar 
ney's  baby.  It  has  been  born  and  it  is  dead.  Oh  — 
poor  Barney.  And  poor,  poor  Adrienne." 

"Yes,  dead!"  Josephine,  regardless  of  all  but  her 
exhaustion  and  her  grief,  dropped  down  into  one  of 
the  garden-chairs  and  put  her  hands  before  her  face. 
"Born  dead  last  night.  A  beautiful  little  boy.  The 
doctors  could  not  save  it  and  fear  for  her  life.  They 
will  not  let  me  stay  with  her.  Only  the  doctors  and 
the  nurses  —  strangers  —  are  with  her."  Josephine 
was  sobbing.  "Ah,  it  was  not  right  to  leave  her  so. 
Already  she  was  ill.  It  could  be  seen  that  already 
she  was  very  ill  when  Monsieur  left  her.  I  came  to 
her  when  he  was  gone.  She  did  not  say  a  word  to 
me.  She  tried  to  smile.  Mais  fai  bien  vu  qu'elle 
avail  la  mart  dans  I'dme" 

"Good  heavens,"  Mrs.  Chadwick  murmured, 
while  Josephine,  now,  let  her  tears  flow  unchecked. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  175 

"She  is  alone  and  Barney  has  left  her!  Oh,  this  is 
terrible!  At  such  a  time!" 

"He  had  to  go,  Aunt  Eleanor.  You  know  he  had 
to  go.  We  will  send  for  him  at  once,"  said  Nancy, 
and  Josephine,  catching  the  words,  sobbed  on  in  her 
woe  and  her  resentment:  "But  where  to  send  for 
him?  No  one  knows  where  to  send.  The  doctors 
sent  a  wire  yesterday,  at  once,  when  she  was  taken 
ill;  to  the  Paris  hotel.  But  no  answer  came.  He 
must  have  left  Paris.  That  is  why  I  have  come.  No 
telegrams  for  Sunday.  No  trains  in  time.  I  took  the 
car.  The  doctor  said,  Yes,  it  was  well  that  I  should 
come.  Some  one  who  cares  for  Madame  should 
return  with  me.  If  she  is  to  die  she  must  not  die 
alone." 

"But  she  shall  not  die!"  cried  Mrs.  Chadwick 
with  sudden  and  surprising  energy.  "Oh,  the  poor 
baby!  It  might  have  lived  had  I  been  there.  No 
doctor,  no  nurse,  can  understand  like  a  mother. 
And  I  shall  be  able  to  help  with  Adrienne.  I  must 
go.  I  must  go  at  once.  Mademoiselle  will  see  that 
you  have  something  to  eat  and  drink,  my  poor 
Josephine,  and  then  you  and  I  will  return  together. 
It  will  not  take  me  a  moment  to  get  ready." 

"It  will  be  the  best  thing  for  them  all,"  Old- 
meadow  murmured  to  Mrs.  Averil,  as,  taking  Jo 
sephine's  arm,  Mrs.  Chadwick  hurried  her  along 
the  path.  "And  I'll  go  with  them." 

A  little  later,  while  Mrs.  Chadwick  made  ready 
above  and  Josephine,  in  the  hall,  ate  .the  meal  that 
Johnson  had  brought  for  her,  Oldmeadow  and  Nancy 
stood  outside  near  the  empty  waiting  car. 

"I'll  wire  to  you  at  once,  of  course,  how  she  is," 
he  said.  Adrienne  had  put  Meg  out  of  all  their 


176  ADRIENNE  TONER 

thoughts.  "But  it's  rather  grotesque,"  he  added,  "if 
poor  Barney  is  to  be  blamed." 

Nancy  stood  and  looked  before  her,  wrapped,  as 
she  had  been  the  day  before,  in  her  woollen  scarf. 
"Roger,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  "no  one  can  be 
blamed;  yet,  if  she  dies,  I  shall  feel  that  we  have 
killed  her." 

"Killed  her!  What  nonsense,  my  dear!  What  do 
you  mean?"  He  spoke  angrily  because  something 
in  his  heart,  shaken  by  his  dream,  echoed  her.  The 
dreaming  had  now  revealed  itself  as  definitely  un 
canny.  What  had  he  to  do  with  Adrienne  Toner  that 
his  sub-consciousness  should  be  aware  of  her  ex 
tremity? 

"I  can't  explain,"  said  Nancy.  "We  couldn't 
help  it.  It's  even  all  her  fault.  But  she  never  asked 
to  come  to  us.  She  never  sought  us  out.  She  had 
her  life  and  we  had  ours.  It  was  we  who  sought  her 
and  drew  her  in  and  worshipped  her.  She  never  hid 
what  she  was;  never  in  the  least  little  way.  It  was 
for  what  she  was,  because  she  was  so  different  and 
believed  so  in  herself,  that  Barney  loved  her.  And 
now  because  she  has  gone  on  believing  in  herself, 
we  have  struck  her  down." 

The  rooks  were  cawing  overhead  and  Oldmeadow 
was  remembering  his  dream  of  a  year  ago,  how  Ad 
rienne  had  come  to  him  along  the  terrace  saying,  as 
she  lifted  her  hand:  "I  can  hear  them,  too."  They 
had  drawn  her  in.  Yet  she  had  loved  their  life.  She 
had  wanted  to  understand  it  and  to  be  part  of  it. 
He  wished  he  could  get  the  pale,  streaked,  drowning 
face  out  of  his  mind.  "  It's  generous  of  you,  my  dear 
child,"  he  said,  "to  say  'we.'  You  mean  'you.'  If 
anyone  struck  her  down  it  was  I." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  177 

"You  spoke  for  us  all,  Roger.  And  you  only 
spoke  for  us.  You  were  always  outside.  I  count  my 
self  with  them.  I  can't  separate  myself  from  them. 
I  received  her  love  —  with  them  all." 

"Did  you?"  he  looked  at  her.  "I  don't  think  so, 
Nancy." 

Nancy  did  not  pretend  not  to  understand.  "I 
know,"  she  said.  "  But  I'm  part  of  it.  And  she  tried 
to  love  me." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OLDMEADOW  sat  in  Barney's  study,  Mrs.  Chadwick 
beside  him.  It  was  Tuesday  and  the  only  news  of 
Barney  had  been  a  letter  to  his  mother,  from  Paris, 
where  he  had  not  found  Meg,  and  two  wires  from 
the  South  of  France,  one  to  Oldmeadow  and  one  to 
his  wife,  saying  that  he  had  found  Meg  and  was  re 
turning  alone.  He  had  not,  it  was  evident,  received 
the  doctor's  messages. 

Oldmeadow  had  not  seen  his  old  friend  since  the 
Sunday  night  when  he  had  left  her  and  Josephine 
in  Connaught  Square,  and  in  his  first  glance  at  her 
this  morning  he  saw  that  for  her,  too,  Adrienne's 
peril  had  actually  effaced  Meg's  predicament.  It 
had  done  more.  Faint  and  feeble  as  she  must  be, 
scarcely  able  to  take  possession  of  her  returning  life 
and,  as  Mrs.  Chadwick  told  him,  not  yet  out  of 
danger,  Adrienne  had  already  drawn  her  mother- 
in-law  back  into  the  circle  of  her  influence. 

"You  see,  Roger,"  she  said,  sitting  there  on  the 
absurdly  incongruous  background  of  the  Post  Im 
pressionist  pictures  and  tightly  squeezing  her  hand 
kerchief  first  in  one  hand  and  then  in  the  other, 
"You  see,  when  one  is  with  her  one  has  to  trust  her. 
I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  almost  at  once  I  felt  all 
my  bitterness  against  her  die  quite  away.  I  knew, 
whatever  she  had  done,  that  she  believed  it  to  be 
right;  to  be  really  best  for  Meg,  you  know.  And  oh, 
Roger,  Barney  has  hurt  her  so  terribly!  She  can't 
speak  of  him  without  crying.  I  never  saw  her  cry 
before.  I  never  imagined  Adrienne  crying.  She 


ADRIENNE  TONER  179 

feels,  she  can't  help  feeling,  that  it  is  because  of  that 
they  have  lost  their  baby." 

Oldmeadow  ordered  with  difficulty  his  astonished 
and  indignant  thoughts.  "That  is  absolutely  unfair 
to  Barney,"  he  said.  "I  was  with  them.  No  one 
could  have  been  gentler  or  more  patient." 

"  I  know  you  were  with  them.  It  would  seem  like 
that  to  you,  Roger,  because  you  are  a  man  and  men 
still  think  of  women  as  a  sort  of  chattel.  That's  how 
it  looks  to  Adrienne.  So  much  more  independence, 
you  know,  than  we  ever  had.  —  Oh,  I  don't  say  it's 
a  good  thing!  I  feel  that  we  are  weaker  and  need 
guidance." 

"Chattels?  Where  do  chattels  come  in  here? 
She  said  that  to  you.  Barney  merely  pleaded  with 
her  so  that  he  could  do  what  you  wanted  him  to  do." 

"I  know  —  I  know,  Roger.  Don't  get  angry. 
But  if  I  had  been  here  and  seen  her  I  should  have 
known  that  he  must  not  go.  I  should  have  seen  that 
she  was  in  danger.  A  woman  would  have  understood. 
No;  you  didn't  treat  Adrienne  like  a  chattel;  no  one 
could  treat  Adrienne  like  one.  It  was  poor  little 
Meg  I  meant.  I  see  now  how  wrong  it  was  to  think 
of  taking  her  from  the  man  she  loves;  when  she  has 
gone,  you  know,  so  that  everyone  must  know  and 
there  can  be  no  good  in  it.  And  they  probably  have 
bought  a  wedding-ring.  Oh,  Roger,  she  does  comfort 
me  about  Meg.  She  makes  me  feel  the  deeper 
things,  the  things  conventions  blind  us  to.  She 
makes  me  feel  that  the  great  thing,  the  only  thing, 
is  to  follow  one's  own  light  and  that  Meg  did  do 
that.  And  after  all,  you  know,  Roger,  Jowett  had 
George  Eliot  and  Lewes  to  breakfast  and  they  were 
never  married," 


i8o  ADR1ENNE  TONER 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  Oldmeadow  laughed.  He  could 
not  repress  his  bitter  mirth.  "Follow  your  light  if 
there's  breakfast  with  a  clergyman  at  the  end  of  it!" 
he  cruelly  suggested.  Yet  he  was  too  much  amused, 
while  so  incensed,  for  there  to  be  much  cruelty,  and 

Mrs.  Chadwick,  gazing  at  him  as  if  from  under  her 
twisted  straw,  murmured:  "He  was  a  sort  of  clergy 
man,  Roger;  and  if  people  do  what  seems  to  them 
right,  why  should  they  be  punished?" 

He  saw  it  all.  He  heard  it  all,  in  her  echoes.  The 
potent  influence  had  been  poured  through  her,  all 
the  more  irresistible  for  the  appeal  of  Adrienne's 
peril.  Adrienne,  bereaved  and  dying;  yet  magnani 
mous,  gentle  and  assured;  always  assured.  How 
could  Mrs.  Chadwick's  feathers  and  wedding-rings 
stand  a  chance  against  her?  They  had  been  swept 
away,  or  nearly  away,  and  what  Nancy  had  seen  as 
a  possible  hope  was  now  an  accomplished  fact.  Mrs. 
Chadwick  had  been  brought  to  feel  about  Meg  as 
Adrienne  felt  about  her,  and  Oldmeadow,  for  his 
part,  was  not  sure  that  the  game  was  worth  the 
candle.  There  was  something  more  than  absurd 
in  his  poor  friend's  attempts  to  adjust  herself  to  the 
new  standards.  They  were  pitiable  and  even  a  little 
unseemly.  She  began  presently  softly  to  weep. 
"Such  a  pretty  baby  it  was,  Roger.  A  lovely  little 
creature  —  that  was  the  first  thing  she  said  to  me 

-  '  Oh,  Mother  Nell,  it  was  such  a  pretty  baby. ' 
And  all  that  she  said  this  morning  —  when  it  was 
taken  away  —  was: ' I  wish  Barney  could  have  been 
in  time  to  see  our  baby. '  Oh,  it  is  terrible,  terrible, 
Roger,  that  he  is  not  here !  Her  heart  is  broken  by 
it.  How  can  she  ever  forget  that  he  left  her  alone  at 
such  a  time.  And  she  begged  him  not  to  go.  She 
told  me  that  she  almost  knelt  to  him." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  181 

The  tears,  irrepressibly,  had  risen  to  Oldmeadow's 
eyes;  but  as  Mrs.  Chadwick's  sentence  meandered 
on,  his  thoughts  were  roughly  jolted  from  their  pity. 
"But  I  tell  you  that  that  is  absolutely  unfair!"  he 
repeated,  fixing  his  glass  to  look  his  protest  the  more 
firmly  at  her.  "I  tell  you  that  I  was  there  and  saw 
it  all.  It  wasn't  for  the  baby.  She  was  thinking  of 
the  baby  as  little  as  Barney  was;  less  than  he  was. 
What  she  was  thinking  of  was  her  power  over  Bar 
ney.  She  was  determined  that  she  should  not  seem 
to  be  put  in  the  wrong  by  his  going." 

Like  the  March  Hare  Mrs.  Chad  wick  was  wild 
yet  imperturbable.  "Of  course  she  was  determined. 
How  could  she  be  anything  else?  It  did  put  her  in 
the  wrong.  And  it  put  Meg  in  the  wrong.  That's 
where  we  were  so  blind.  Oh,  I  blame  myself  as 
much  as  anybody.  But  Barney  is  her  husband ;  and 
he  was  with  her  and  should  have  seen  and  felt.  How 
could  she  beg  him  to  stay  for  her  danger  when  he 
would  not  stay  for  her  love?" 

Yes;  Adrienne  had  her  very  firmly.  She  had  even 
imparted  to  her,  when  it  came  to  the  issue,  some 
thing  of  coherency.  She  was  building  up,  in  Bar 
ney's  absence,  strange  ramparts  against  him.  Barney 
had  dragged  her  in  the  dust  and  there  she  intended 
to  drag  him.  Wasn't  that  it?  Oldmeadow  asked 
himself  as  he  eyed  his  altered  friend,  muttering 
finally:  "I'm  every  bit  as  responsible  as  Barney,  if 
it  comes  to  that.  I  upheld  him,  completely,  in  his 
decision.  I  do  still.  Adrienne  may  turn  you  all  up 
side  down;  but  she  won't  turn  me;  and  I  hope  she 
won't  turn  Barney." 

"I  think,  Roger,  that  you  might  at  all  events  re 
member  that  she's  not  out  of  danger,"  said  Mrs. 


1 82  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Chadwick.  ''She  may  die  yet  and  give  you  no  more 
trouble.  You  have  never  cared  for  her;  I  know  that, 
and  so  does  she;  and  I  do  think  it's  unfeeling  of  you 
to  speak  as  you  do  when  she's  lying  there  above  us. 
And  she  looks  so  lovely  in  bed,"  Mrs.  Chadwick  be 
gan  to  weep  again.  "I  never  saw  such  thick  braids; 
like  Marguerite  in  Faust.  Her  hands  on  the  sheets 
so  thin  and  white  and  her  eyes  enormous.  I  don't 
think  even  you  could  have  the  heart  to  jibe  and 
laugh  if  you  saw  her." 

"I  didn't  laugh  at  Adrienne,  you  know,"  Old- 
meadow  reminded  her,  rising  and  buttoning  his 
overcoat.  "I  laughed  at  you  and  Jowett.  No;  Ad 
rienne  is  no  laughing  matter.  But  she  won't  die.  I 
can  assure  you  of  that  now.  She's  too  much  life  in 
her  to  die.  And  though  I'm  very  sorry  for  her  — 
difficult  as  you  may  find  it  to  believe  —  I  shall  re 
serve  my  pity  for  Barney." 

Barney  needed  all  his  pity  and  the  sight  of  him 
on  the  following  Sunday  evening,  as  he  appeared  on 
his  threshold,  would  have  exorcised  for  Oldmeadow, 
if  Mrs.  Chadwick  had  not  already  done  so,  the  mem 
ory  of  the  pale,  drowning  face.  He  looked  like  a  dog 
that  has  been  beaten  for  a  fault  it  cannot  recognize. 
There  was  bewilderment  in  his  eyes  and  acceptance, 
and  a  watchful  humility.  To  see  them  there  made 
Oldmeadow  angry. 

Barney  had  sent  a  line  to  say  that  he  was  back; 
but  his  friend  had  been  prepared  not  to  see  him. 
Once  engulfed  in  the  house  of  mourning  it  was  but 
too  likely  that  he  would  not  emerge  for  many  days. 
And  besides,  what  would  Barney  have  to  say  to  him 
now?  But  here  he  was,  with  his  hollow  eyes  and 
faded  cheeks,  and  it  was  with  an  echo  of  his  old  boy- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  183 

ish  manner  of  dropping  in  when  beset  by  some  per 
plexity  that,  without  speaking,  he  crossed  the  room 
and  sank  on  the  sofa  by  the  fireplace.  But  he  had 
not  come  to  seek  counsel  or  sustainment.  Old- 
meadow  saw  that,  as,  after  he  had  offered  cigarettes, 
which  Barney  refused,  and  lighted  his  own  pipe,  he 
walked  to  and  fro  and  watched  him  while  Barney 
watched  the  flames.  He  had  not  come  with  a  pur 
pose  at  all.  It  was,  again,  precisely  like  the  unhappy 
dog  who  wanders  forth  aimlessly,  guided  merely  by 
a  dim  yearning  towards  warmth  and  kindliness. 
Barney  had  come  where  he  would  be  understood. 
But  it  was  not  because  he  believed  himself  to  be  mis 
understood  that  he  came. 

"I  went  to  Cold  brooks,  first,  you  know,"  he  said 
presently,  and  with  an  effect  of  irrelevance.  "I 
thought  I'd  find  Mother  there.  So  it  was  only  on 
that  Thursday  night  I  got  back  here.  None  of  the 
wires  caught  me." 

"I  know,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "It  was  most  un 
fortunate.  But  you  couldn't  have  got  back  sooner, 
could  you,  once  you'd  gone  on  from  Paris." 

"Not  possibly.  I  went  on  from  Paris  that  very 
night,  you  see.  I  caught  the  night  express  to  the 
Riviera.  They'd  left  Cannes  as  an  address,  but 
when  I  got  there  I  found  they'd  moved  on  to  San 
Remo.  It  was  Tuesday  before  I  found  them.  My 
one  idea  was  to  find  them  as  soon  as  possible,  of 
course.  No;  I  suppose  it  couldn't  be  helped;  once 
I'd  gone." 

"And  it  was  quite  useless?  You'd  no  chance  with 
Meg  at  all?" 

"  None  whatever.  Quite  useless.  Never  was  such 
a  wild-goose  chase.  It  was  exactly  as  Adrienne  had 
said." 


1 84  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"Still  it  couldn't  have  been  foreseen  so  securely 
by  anyone  but  Adrienne.  Many  girls  would  have 
jumped  at  the  chance." 

"Not  if  they'd  had  Adrienne  to  help  them.  We 
might  have  realized  that.  That's  what  armed  Meg. 
I  heard  Adrienne  in  everything  she  said.  Even 
Mother  thinks  Adrienne  was  right,  now,  you  know, 
Roger.  And  it  was  all  for  Mother,  wasn't  it?  that 
I  went.  That  makes  it  all  so  particularly  ironic. 
Only  dear  Mummy  was  never  very  strong  at  logic. 
She  takes  the  line  now  that  we're  narrow-minded 
conventionalists,  you  and  I,  for  thinking  that  a 
girl  oughtn't  to  go  off  with  a  married  man.  I  can't 
feel  that,  you  know,  Roger,"  said  Barney  in  his 
listless  tone.  "  I  can't  help  feeling  that  Meg  has 
done  something  shameful.  You  ought  to  have  seen 
her !  Positively  smug !  sitting  there  with  that  ass  of 
a  fellow  in  that  damned  Riviera  hotel!  I  had  the 
horridest  feeling,  too,  that  Meg  had  brought  him 
rather  than  he  her.  I  don't  mean  he  doesn't  care 
for  her  —  he  does;  I'll  say  that  for  him.  He's  a  stu 
pid  fellow,  but  honest;  and  he  came  outside  and 
tried  to  tell  me  what  he  felt  and  how  it  would  be  all 
right  and  that  he  was  going  to  devote  his  life  to  her. 
But  I  think  he  feels  pretty  sick,  really.  While  Meg 
treated  me  as  if  I  were  a  silly  little  boy.  If  anyone 
can  carry  the  thing  through,  Meg  will." 

"It  won't  prove  her  right  because  she  carries  it 
through,  you  know,"  Oldmeadow  observed. 

"No,"  said  Barney,  "but  it  will  make  us  seem 
more  wrong.  Not  that  you  have  any  responsibility 
in  it,  dear  old  boy.  I  did  what  I  felt  I  must  do  and 
mine  was  the  mistake.  It's  not  only  Mother  who 
thinks  I've  wronged  Adrienne,"  he  went  on  after  a 


ADRIENNE  TONER  185 

moment,  lifting  his  arms  as  though  he  felt  a  weight 
upon  them  and  clasping  them  behind  his  head. 
"  Even  Nancy,  though  she  was  so  sorry  for  me,  made 
me  feel  that  I'd  done  something  very  dreadful." 

"Nancy?  How  did  you  come  to  see  Nancy?" 

"Why,  at  Coldbrooks.  She's  still  there  with 
Aunt  Monica.  That  was  just  it.  It  was  my  going 
there  first,  seeing  her  first,  that  upset  her  so.  She 
couldn't  understand,  till  I  could  explain,  how  it 
came  about.  She  was  thinking  of  Adrienne,  you  see. 
And  I,  knowing  nothing,  had  been  thinking  of 
Mother  all  the  time.  It  was  too  late,  then,  to  go 
back  at  once.  The  next  train  wasn't  for  three  hours. 
So  I  had  to  stay." 

"And  it  was  Nancy  who  had  to  tell  you  every 
thing?" 

"Yes;  Nancy,"  said  Barney,  staring  at  the  ceiling. 
There  was  a  note,  now,  of  control  in  his  voice  and 
Oldmeadow  knew  that  if  he  had  said  no  word  of 
what  must  be  foremost  in  both  their  thoughts  it  was 
because  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak  of  it. 
And  he  went  on  quickly,  taking  refuge  from  his  in 
vading  emotion,  "Aunt  Monica  wasn't  there.  I 
didn't  even  see  Johnson.  I  went  right  through  the 
house  and  into  the  garden  and  there  was  Nancy, 
planting  something  in  the  border.  Everything 
looked  so  natural.  I  just  went  up  to  her  and  said 
'  Hello,  Nancy, '  and  then,  when  she  looked  up  at 
me,  I  thought  she  was  going  to  faint.  Poor  little 
Nancy.  I  knew  something  terrible  had  happened 
from  the  way  she  looked  at  me." 

"Poor  little  Nancy.  But  I'm  glad  it  was  she  who 
told  you,  Barney." 

"No  one  could  have  been  sweeter,"  said  Barney, 


i86  ADRIENNE  TONER 

talking  on  quickly.  "She  kept  saying,  'Oh,  you 
oughtn't  to  be  here,  Barney.  You  oughtn't  to  be 
here. '  But  no  one  could  have  been  sweeter.  We  sat 
down  on  the  old  bench,  you  know,  and  she  told  me. 
That  Adrienne  had  nearly  died.  That  the  baby  was 
dead.  I  could  hardly  believe  her,  at  first.  I  stared  at 
her,  I  know,  and  I  kept  saying,  '  What  do  you  mean, 
Nancy?  —  what  do  you  mean?'  And  she  began  to 
cry  and  I  cried,  too.  Men  do  feel,  Roger,  all  the 
same,  even  though  they  haven't  the  mother's  claim 
to  feel.  I  thought  about  our  baby  so  much.  I  loved 
it,  too.  And  now  —  to  think  it's  dead ;  and  that  I 
never  saw  it;  and  that  it's  my  fault"  -his  voice 
had  shaken  more  and  more;  he  had  put  his  hand 
before  his  eyes,  and,  then,  suddenly,  he  leaned  for 
ward  and  buried  his  head  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa. 

"My  poor  Barney!  My  dear  boy!"  Oldmeadow 
muttered.  He  came  and  sat  down  beside  him;  he 
laid  his  arm  around  his  shoulders.  "It's  not  your 
fault,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Roger!"  sobbed  Barney. 
"It's  no  good  trying  to  comfort  me.  I've  broken 
her  heart.  She  doesn't  say  so.  She's  too  angelic  to 
say  it ;  but  she  lies  there  and  looks  it.  My  poor  dar 
ling!  My  poor,  courageous  darling;  what  she  has 
been  through!  It  can't  be  helped.  I  must  face  it. 
I'm  her  husband.  I  ought  to  have  understood.  She 
supplicated  me,  and  I  rejected  her,  and  the  child  is 
dead." 

"The  child's  death  is  a  calamity  for  which  no  one 
can  be  held  responsible  unless  it  is  Adrienne  her 
self,"  said  Oldmeadow.  While  Barney  sobbed  he 
was  thinking  intently,  for  this  was  a  turning-point 
in  Barney's  destiny.  He  would  remain  in  subjuga- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  187 

tion  to  Adrienne's  conception  of  the  wrong  done  her 
or  he  must  be  enabled  to  regain  the  sense  of  inno 
cence  to  which  he  had  every  right.  "She  forced  the 
situation  on  you.  She  chose  to  break  rather  than 
bend,"  he  said.  "Listen  to  me,  Barney.  I  don't 
speak  in  any  enmity  to  your  wife ;  but  listen  to  me 
and  try  to  think  it  out.  Don't  you  remember  how 
you  once  said  that  your  marriage  couldn't  be  a  mis 
take  if  you  were  able  to  see  the  defects  as  well  as  the 
beauty  of  the  woman  you  love.  Don't  you  remem 
ber  that  you  said  she'd  have  to  learn  a  little  from 
you  for  the  much  you'd  have  to  learn  from  her. 
Nothing  more  reassured  me  than  what  you  said  that 
night.  And  I  was  reassured  the  other  day  by  your 
firmness.  It  implies  no  disloyalty  in  you  to  see  the 
defects  now.  It  was  power  over  you  she  wanted  the 
other  day  and  to  see  herself  put  in  the  right,  before 
me ;  and  to  see  me  worsted,  before  you.  You  know  it, 
Barney ;  you  know  it  in  your  heart.  And  she  knows 
it  too.  There  was  no  failure  of  love  in  what  you 
said.  There  was  only  failure  of  homage.  You  were 
right  in  opposing  her.  She  was  wrong  in  the  issue 
she  made.  She  was  wrong  from  the  first  of  the  mis 
erable  affair  in  having  concealed  it  from  you.  If 
you'd  stayed  behind  as  she  wanted  you  to  do,  you'd 
have  shown  yourself  a  weakling  and  she'd  have  been 
further  than  ever  from  knowing  herself  in  error.  There 
is  the  truth ;  and  the  sooner  you  see  it,  the  sooner  she 
will." 

For  some  time  after  his  friend  had  ended,  Barney 
lay  silent,  his  face  still  hidden.  But  his  sobs  had 
ceased.  And  his  silence,  at  last,  grew  too  long  for 
any  disclaimer  to  be  possible  to  him.  He  had  been 
Brought,  Oldmeadow  knew  it  from  the  very  rhythm 


188  ADRIENNE  TONER 

of  his  breathing,  to  the  passionless  contemplation 
where  alone  truth  is  visible.  And  what  he  said  at 
last  was:  "She'll  never  see  it  like  that." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  will,"  said  Oldmeadow.  And  he  re 
membered  Nancy's  wisdom.  "If  you  hold  to  it 
firmly  and  tenderly  and  make  her  feel  you  love  her 
while  you  make  her  feel  you  think  her  wrong." 

"She'll  never  see  it,"  Barney  repeated,  and  Old- 
meadow  now  suspected,  and  with  a  deep  uneasiness, 
that  Barney  might  be  seeing  further  than  himself. 
"She  can't." 

"You  mean  that  she's  incapable  of  thinking  her 
self  wrong?" 

"Yes,  incapable,"  said  Barney.  "Because  all 
she's  conscious  of  is  the  wish  to  do  right.  And  she  is 
right  so  often,  she  is  so  good  and  beautiful,  that  it 
must  be  like  that  with  her.  She  can  break ;  but  she 
can't  bend." 

Oldmeadow  was  silent  for  a  moment  and  Barney, 
on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  was  silent.  "Of  course," 
Oldmeadow  then  said,  "the  less  you  say  about  it 
the  better.  Things  will  take  their  place  gradually." 

"I've  not  said  anything  about  it,"  said  Barney. 
"I've  only  thought  of  comforting  and  cherishing 
her.  But  it's  not  enough.  I'll  never  say  anything; 
but  she'll  know  I'm  keeping  something  back.  She 
knows  it  already.  I  see  that  now.  And  I  didn't 
know  it  till  you  put  it  to  me." 

"She'll  have  to  accept  it;  or  to  live  with  it  un 
accepted,  then.  You  can't  consider  yourself  a  crim 
inal  to  give  her  moral  ease." 

"No,"  said  Barney  after  a  pause.  "No;  I  can't 
do  that.  Though  that's  what  Mummy  wants  me  to 
do.  But  I  can  be  horribly  sorry." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  189 

"Horribly  sorry.  Let  the  rest  sink  into  the  un 
spoken.  When  people  love  each  other  they  can,  I'm 
sure,  live  over  any  amount  of  unspoken  things." 

"It  hasn't  been  unspoken  between  you  and  me, 
though,  has  it,  Roger?"  said  Barney,  and  he  raised 
himself  and  got  upon  his  feet  as  he  said  it.  "There's 
the  trouble.  There's  where  I  am  wrong.  For  she'd 
feel  it  an  intolerable  wrong  if  she  knew  that  it 
hadn't  been  unspoken  between  you  and  me.  And 
she'd  be  right.  When  people  love  each  other  such 
reticences  and  exclusions  wrong  their  love." 

"But  since  you  say  she  knows,"  Oldmeadow  sug 
gested  after  another  moment. 

Barney  stood  staring  out  of  the  twilight  window. 

"She  doesn't  know  that  I  tell  you,"  he  said. 

''  You've  told  me  nothing,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

"Well,  she  doesn't  know  what  I  listen  to,  then," 
said  Barney. 

Oldmeadow  was  again  conscious  of  the  deep  un 
easiness.  "It's  quite  true  I've  no  call  to  meddle  in 
your  affairs,"  he  said.  "The  essential  thing  is  that 
you  love  each  other.  Let  rights  and  wrongs  go 
hang." 

"You  haven't  meddled,  Roger."  Barney  moved 
towards  the  door.  "You've  been  in  my  affairs,  and 
haven't  been  allowed  to  keep  out.  Yes.  We  love 
each  other.  But  rights  and  wrongs  never  go  hang 
with  Adrienne." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

OLDMEADOW  did  not  see  Barney  again  for  some 
months.  He  met  Eleanor  Chadwick  towards  the 
end  of  April,  in  the  park,  he  on  his  way  to  Mrs. 
Aldesey's,  she,  apparently,  satisfying  her  country 
appetite  for  exercise,  since  she  seemed  to  be  walking 
fast  and  at  random.  He  almost  thought  for  a  mo 
ment  that  she  was  going  to  pretend  not  to  see  him 
and  hurry  down  a  path  that  led  away  from  his;  but 
his  resolute  eye  perhaps  checked  the  impulse.  She 
faltered  and  then  came  forward,  holding  out  her 
hand  and  looking  rather  wildly  about  her,  and  she 
said  that  London  was  really  suffocating,  wasn't  it? 

"You've  been  here  for  so  long,  haven't  you," 
said  Oldmeadow.  "Or  have  you  been  here  all  this 
time?  I've  had  no  news  of  any  of  you,  you  see." 

"  It's  all  been  such  a  troubled,  busy  time,  Roger," 
said  Mrs.  Chadwick.  "Yes,  I've  been  here  ever 
since.  But,  thank  goodness,  the  doctors  say  she 
may  be  moved  now,  and  she  and  I  and  Barney  are 
going  down  to  Devonshire  next  week.  To  Torquay. 
Such  a  dismal  place,  I  think;  but  perhaps  that's  be 
cause  so  many  of  my  relations  have  died  there.  I 
never  have  liked  that  red  Devonshire  soil.  But  the 
primroses  will  be  out.  That  makes  up  a  little." 

"I'm  glad  that  Mrs.  Barney  is  better.  When 
will  you  all  be  back  at  Coldbrooks?" 

"In  June,  I  hope.  Yes;  she  is  better.  But  so 
feeble,  still ;  so  frail.  And  quite,  quite  changed  from 
her  old  bright  self.  It's  all  very  depressing,  Roger. 
Very  depressing  and  wearing,"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick, 


ADRIENNE  TONER  191 

opening  her  eyes  very  wide  and  staring  before  her 
in  a  way  characteristic  of  her  when  she  repressed 
tears.  "Sometimes  I  hardly  know  how  to  keep  up 
at  all.  For  nothing  cheers  her.  And  Barney  isn't 
really  much  help.  He  has  very  little  power  of  fight 
ing  against  depression." 

"  You've  all  been  too  much  shut  up  with  each 
other,  I'm  afraid." 

Mrs.  Chadwick  still  held  her  eyes  widely  opened. 

"I  don't  think  it's  that,  Roger.  Being  alone 
wouldn't  have  helped  us  to  be  happier,  after  what's 
happened." 

''Being  with  other  people  might.  You  must  get 
back  to  Coldbrooks  as  soon  as  possible  and  see 
Nancy  and  Mrs.  Averil  and  your  neighbours.  That 
will  help  to  change  the  current  of  your  thoughts." 

"People  don't  forget  so  easily  as  that,  Roger," 
Mrs.  Chadwick  murmured,  and  it  was  now  with 
severity,  as  though  she  suspected  him  of  triviality. 
"When  something  terrible  has  happened  to  people 
they  are  in  the  current  and  Nancy  and  the  neigh 
bours  are  not  going  to  change  it.  Poor  Nancy;  she 
feels  it  all  as  much  as  we  do,  I'm  sure." 

And  that  Mrs.  Chadwick  thought  of  him  as  un 
feeling  he  saw.  She  thought  of  him,  too,  with  Bar 
ney,  as  criminal ;  as  responsible  for  the  catastrophe. 
The  old  phrase  of  presage  floated  back  into  his 
mind:  "She'll  spoil  things."  She  had  spoiled,  for 
ever  perhaps,  this  deepest,  dearest  relation  of  his 
life.  What  was  Coldbrooks  to  become  to  him  with 
Adrienne  Toner  in  possession?  He  said,  and  he  was 
unable  to  keep  a  certain  dryness  that  must  sound 
like  lightness,  from  his  voice:  "You  are  in  it  but 
you  needn't  keep  your  heads  under  it,  you  know. 


192  ADRIENNE  TONER 

That's  what  people  tend  to  do  when  they  shut  them 
selves  up  with  their  misfortunes.  You  and  Barney 
and  Mrs.  Barney,  I  suspect,  are  engaged  in  drown 
ing  each  other.  If  one  of  you  puts  their  head  up  the 
others  pull  it  down." 

41 1  suppose  you  mean  Adrienne  does,"  said  Mrs. 
Chadwick.  He  had  not  meant  it  at  all ;  but  now  he 
felt  sure  that  so,  exactly,  did  it  happen.  Poor  Mrs. 
Chadwick  left  to  herself  would  have  drifted  to  the 
shore  by  this  time  and  Barney,  at  all  events,  would 
be  swimming  with  his  head  up ;  it  was  Adrienne,  of 
course,  that  kept  them  suffocating  under  the  sur 
face.  "Well,  I  think  it  a  pity  you  three  should  go 
off  to  Torquay  alone,"  he  evaded.  "What's  hap 
pening  to  the  farm  all  this  time?" 

"Nancy  is  seeing  to  it  for  Barney,"  said  Mrs. 
Chadwick.  "She  understands  those  things  so  well. 
Barney  would  not  dream  of  letting  the  farm  come 
between  him  and  Adrienne  at  a  time  like  this.  He 
wants  to  be  with  her  of  course." 

"Of  course.  All  I  mean  is  that  I  wish  he  could  be 
with  her  at  Cold  brooks.  I  suppose  the  doctor 
knows  what's  best,  however." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  own  that  anybody  can 
know  what's  best  Roger,  except  yourself,"  said 
Mrs.  Chadwick  with  her  singularly  unprovocative 
severity.  "Of  course  she  must  go  to  the  sea  and  of 
course  Barney  and  I  must  be  with  her.  She  has  two 
excellent  nurses;  but  I  would  never  trust  the  best 
nurse  for  certain  things.  I  remember  so  well  when 
I  was  ill  myself  once  and  saw  the  nurse  behind  a 
screen,  eating  raspberry  jam  out  of  the  pot  with  her 
finger.  You  can't  trust  anybody,  really."  And  that 
was  all  he  got  out  of  Eleanor  Chadwick.  Adrienne 
had  spoiled  things. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  193 

It  was  in  June  that  he  heard  from  Mrs.  Averil 
that  she  and  Nancy  were  in  London  for  a  few  days 
staying  with  an  old  aunt  in  Eccleston  Square.  Mrs. 
Averil  asked  him  to  come  to  tea  and  he  asked  her 
and  Nancy  to  do  a  play  with  him ;  but  before  these 
meetings  took  place  he  saw  them  both.  It  was  at 
a  Queen's  Hall  concert  on  Sunday  afternoon  that 
Mrs.  Aldesey  called  his  attention  to  his  friends  and, 
to  his  surprise,  Oldmeadow  saw  that  Barney  was 
with  them.  They  sat  across  the  gangway  at  some 
little  distance  and  his  first  impression  of  the  three 
was  that  they  were  not  happy. 

"Did  you  know  he  was  in  town?"  asked  Mrs. 
Aldesey.  "How  ill  he  looks.  I  suppose  he  was 
frightfully  upset  about  the  baby,  poor  fellow." 

Mrs.  Aldesey  knew  nothing  of  the  catastrophes 
that  had  followed  the  baby's  death.  He  had  in 
stinctively  avoided  any  reference  to  the  latest  prog 
ress  of  the  Juggernaut. 

"She's  much  better  now,  you  know,"  he  said,  and 
he  wasn't  aware  that  he  was  exonerating  Barney. 
"And  they're  all  back  at  Coldbrooks." 

"She's  not  at  Coldbrooks,"  said  Mrs.  Aldesey. 
"She's  well  enough  to  pay  visits  and  Lady  Lumley 
told  me  she  was  coming  down  to  them  for  this  week 
end.  I  wonder  he  hasn't  gone  with  her." 

Oldmeadow  was  wondering  too.  There  was  some 
thing  about  Barney's  attitude  as  he  sat  there  beside 
his  cousin,  silent  and  absent-minded  it  seemed,  lis 
tening  as  little  to  the  music  as  he  looked  little  at  her, 
that  he  would  rather  Lydia  Aldesey  had  not  been 
there  to  observe.  They  had  a  curiously  marital  ap 
pearance,  the  young  couple,  or,  rather,  Barney  had ; 
the  air  of  being  safe  with  some  one  with  whom  no 


194  ADRIENNE  TONER 

explanations  were  needed  and  for  whom  no  appear 
ances  must  be  kept  up ;  some  one,  even,  with  whom 
he  was  so  identified  that  he  was  hardly  conscious 
of  her.  Nancy  was  not  so  unconscious.  Once,  when 
Barney  leaned  over  to  look  at  the  programme,  she 
drew  away  a  little ;  and  Oldmeadow  even  fancied  a 
slight  constraint  in  her  glance  when,  now  and  then, 
he  spoke  to  her.  Had  Adrienne  spoiled  things  there, 
too?  Mrs.  Averil  next  day,  in  Eccleston  Square, 
enlightened  him  as  to  Barney's  presence.  "It's 
been  most  unfortunate.  He  had  planned  to  come  up 
to  this  concert  for  a  long  time.  He  wanted  Nancy 
to  hear  the  Cesar  Franck  with  him.  And  then  it 
appeared  that  Adrienne  had  made  an  engagement 
for  them  with  the  Lumleys.  He  refused  to  go,  I'm 
afraid,  and  she  made  an  issue  of  it  and,  from  what 
poor  Eleanor  told  me,  there  was  rather  a  row.  So 
Adrienne  has  gone  off  alone  and  Barney  is  here  till 
this  evening.  He's  gone  out  now  with  Nancy  to 
show  her  some  pictures  by  a  friend  of  his.  It  had  all 
been  arranged.  So  what  were  we  to  do  about  it, 
Roger?" 

"Do  about  it?  Why  just  what  you  have  done. 
Why  shouldn't  she  go  with  him?" 

"Why  indeed?  Except  that  Adrienne  has  made 
the  issue.  It's  awkward,  of  course,  when  you  know 
there's  been  a  row,  to  go  on  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened." 

Oldmeadow  meditated.  His  friend's  little  face 
had  been  pinched  by  the  family's  distress  when  he 
had  last  seen  it;  it  was  clouded  now  by  a  closer,  a 
more  personal  perplexity.  "  I  suppose  she  made  the 
issue  on  purpose  so  that  Barney  shouldn't  come 
up,"  he  said  at  length. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  195 

"I  really  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  had  been  ar 
ranged  first  with  the  Lumleys.  If  it  was  to  keep 
him  from  coming,  that  didn't  come  out.  She 
wouldn't  let  it  come  out;  not  into  the  open;  of 
course." 

"So  things  are  going  very  badly.  I'd  imagined, 
with  all  Barney's  contrition,  that  they  might  have 
worked  out  well." 

"They've  worked  out  as  badly,  I'm  afraid,  as 
they  could.  He  was  full  of  contrition.  He  was  as 
devoted  as  possible,  when  they  came  back  in  May. 
But  nothing  altered  her  unflagging  melancholy. 
And  I  suppose  what  happened  was  that  he  got  tired. 
Barney  was  always  like  that,  from  the  time  he  was 
in  the  nursery.  He'd  go  on  being  patient  and  good- 
tempered  until,  suddenly,  everything  would  break 
down  and  he  would  sulk  for  days.  It's  when  he's 
pushed  too  far.  And  she  has  pushed  him  too  far. 
She's  set  them  all  against  him." 

"Who  is  them?"  Oldmeadow  asked.  "I  saw, 
when  we  met  in  London,  that  Mrs.  Chadwick  actu 
ally  had  been  brought  to  look  upon  Barney  as  a  sort 
of  miscreant  and  Adrienne  as  a  martyr.  Who  else 
is  there?" 

"Well,  no  one  else  except  Palgrave  and  Barbara. 
Palgrave  can  be  very  exasperating,  as  you  know, 
and  he  takes  the  attitude  now  that  Barney  has 
done  Adrienne  an  irreparable  injury.  As  you  may 
imagine  it  isn't  a  pleasant  life  Barney  leads  among 
them  all." 

"I  see,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "I  think  I  see  it  all. 
What  happens  now  is  that  Barney  more  and  more 
takes  refuge  with  you  and  Nancy,  and  Adrienne 
more  and  more  can't  bear  it." 


196  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"That  is  precisely  it,  Roger,"  said  Mrs.  Averil. 
"And  what  are  we  to  do?  How  can  I  shut  my  door 
against  Barney?  Yet  it  is  troubling  me  more  than 
I  can  say.  We  are  forced  to  seem  on  his  side  and 
against  her.  And  Adrienne  has  her  eye  upon  them." 

"Let  her  keep  it  on  them,"  said  Oldmeadow  in 
strong  indignation.  "And  much  good  may  it  do  her ! " 

"Oh,  it  won't  do  her  any  good  —  nor  us!"  said 
Mrs.  Averil.  "She's  sick  with  jealousy,  Roger. 
Sick.  I'm  almost  sorry  for  her  when  I  see  it  and  see 
her  trying  to  hide  it,  and  see  it  always,  coming  in  by 
the  back  door  when  she  shuts  the  front  door  on  it  - 
as  it  always  does,  you  know.  And  Nancy  sees  it,  of 
course;  and  is  quite  as  sick  as  she  is;  and  Barney,  of 
course,  remains  as  blind  as  a  bat." 

"Well,  as  long  as  he  remains  blind  — 

"Yes.  As  long  as  he  does.  But  Adrienne  will 
make  him  see.  She'll  pick  and  pull  at  their  friend 
ship  until  Nancy  will  be  forced  into  drawing  back, 
and  if  she  draws  back  Barney  will  see.  What  it's 
already  come  to  is  that  she  has  to  stand  still,  and 
smile,  while  Adrienne  scratches  her,  lest  Barney 
should  see  she's  scratched ;  and  once  or  twice  of  late 
I've  had  a  suspicion  that  he  has  seen.  It  doesn't  en 
dear  Nancy  to  Adrienne  that  Barney  should  scowl 
at  her  when  he's  caught  her  scratching. 

"What  kind  of  scratches?"  Oldmeadow  asked, 
but  Mrs.  Averil  had  only  time  to  say,  "Oh,  all 
kinds;  she's  wonderful  at  scratches,"  when  the  door 
bell  rang  and  Nancy,  a  moment  after,  came  in. 

Nancy,  if  anything  so  fresh  and  neat  could  be 
so  called,  was  looking  rather  dowdy,  and  he  sus 
pected  that  some  self-effacing  motive  lay  behind 
her  choice  of  clothes. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  197 

"Oh,  Roger,  Barney  was  so  sorry  to  have  to  miss 
you,"  she  said.  And,  at  all  events,  whatever  else 
Adrienne  had  spoiled,  she  had  not  spoiled  Nancy's 
loving  smile  for  him.  "He  had  to  catch  the  4.45  to 
Coldbrooks,  you  know.  There's  a  prize  heifer  ar 
riving  this  evening  and  he  must  be  there  to  welcome 
it.  You  must  see  his  herd  of  Holsteins,  Roger." 
Friesians  were,  at  that  date,  still  Holsteins. 

"I'd  like  to,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "But  I  don't 
know  when  I  shall,  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I've 
not  been  asked  to  Coldbrooks  this  summer.  The 
first  time  since  I've  known  them." 

Nancy  looked  at  him  in  silence. 

"You'll  come  to  us,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Averil. 

"Do  you  really  think  I'd  better,  all  things  con 
sidered  ?"  Oldmeadow  asked. 

"Why,  of  course  you'd  better.  What  possible 
reasons  could  there  be  for  your  not  coming,  except 
ones  we  don't  accept?" 

"  It  won't  seem  to  range  us  too  much  in  a  hostile 
camp?" 

"Not  more  than  we're  ranged  already.  Nancy 
and  I  are  not  going  to  give  you  up,  my  dear  Roger, 
because  Adrienne  considers  herself  a  martyr." 

"I  hope  not,  indeed.  But  it  makes  my  exclusion 
from  Coldbrooks  more  marked,  perhaps,  if  I  go  to 
you.  I  imagine,  though  I  am  so  much  in  her  black 
books,  that  poor  Mrs.  Chadwick  doesn't  want  my 
exclusion  to  be  marked." 

"You're  quite  right  there.  You  are  in  her  black 
books;  but  she  doesn't  want  it  marked;  she'd  like 
to  have  you,  really,  if  Adrienne  weren't  there  and  if 
she  didn't  feel  shy  And  I  really  think  it  will  make 
it  easier  for  her  if  you  come  to  us  instead.  It  will 


198  ADRIENNE  TONER 

tide  it  over  a  little.  She'll  be  almost  able  to  feel  you 
are  with  them.  After  all,  you  do  come  to  us,  often." 

"And  I'll  go  up  with  you  to  Coldbrooks  as  if 
nothing  had  happened?  I  confess  I  have  a  curiosity 
to  see  how  Mrs.  Barney  takes  me." 

"She's  very  good  at  taking  things,  you  know," 
said  Nancy. 

Mrs.  Averil  cast  a  glance  upon  him.  "It  may  be 
really  something  of  a  relief  to  their  minds,  Roger," 
she  said,  "if  you  turn  up  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
They  are  in  need  of  distractions.  They  are  all  dread 
fully  on  edge,  though  they  won't  own  to  it,  about 
Meg.  The  case  is  coming  on  quite  soon  now.  Mrs. 
Hayward  has  lost  no  time,  and  poor  Eleanor  only 
keeps  up  because  Adrienne  is  there  to  hold  her  up." 

"Where  is  Meg?   Do  they  hear  from  her?" 

"They  hear  from  her  constantly.  She's  still  on 
the  Continent.  She  writes  very  easily  and  confi 
dently.  I  can't  help  imagining,  all  the  same,  that 
Adrienne  is  holding  her  up,  too.  She's  written  to 
Nancy  and  Nancy  hasn't  shown  me  her  letters." 

"There  is  nothing  to  hide,  Mother,"  said  Nancy, 
and  Oldmeadow  had  never  seen  her  look  so  de 
jected.  "Nothing  at  all,  except  that  she's  not  as 
easy  and  confident  as  she  wants  to  appear.  Ad 
rienne  does  hold  her  up.  Poor  Meg." 


THE  picture  of  Adrienne  holding  them  up  was 
spread  before  Oldmeadow's  eyes  on  the  hot  July 
day  when  Mrs.  Averil  drove  him  up  from  the  Little 
House  to  Coldbrooks.  The  shade  of  the  great  lime- 
tree  on  the  lawn  was  like  a  canvas,  only  old  Johnson, 
as  he  moved  to  and  fro  with  tea-table,  silver  and 
strawberries,  stepping  from  its  cool  green  atmos 
phere  into  the  framing  sunshine.  The  Chadwick 
family,  seated  or  lying  in  the  shade,  were  all  nearly 
as  still  as  in  a  picture,  and  Adrienne  was  its  centre. 
She  sat  in  a  high-backed  wicker  chair,  her  hands 
lying  listlessly  in  her  lap,  a  scarf  about  her  shoul 
ders,  and  in  her  black-veiled  white,  her  wide,  trans 
parent  hat,  she  was  like  a  clouded  moon.  There  was 
something  even  of  daring,  to  Oldmeadow's  imagi 
nation,  in  their  approach  across  the  sunny  spaces. 
Her  eyes  had  so  rested  upon  them  from  the  moment 
that  they  had  driven  up,  that  they  might  have  been 
bold  wayfarers  challenging  the  magic  of  a  Circe  in 
her  web.  Palgrave,  in  his  white  flannels,  lay 
stretched  at  her  feet,  and  he  had  been  reading  aloud 
to  her;  Barbara  and  Mrs.  Chadwick  sat  listening 
while  they  worked  on  either  hand.  Only  Barney 
was  removed,  sitting  at  some  little  distance,  his 
back  half  turned,  a  pipe  between  his  teeth  and  his 
eyes  on  a  magazine  that  lay  upon  his  knee.  But 
the  influence,  the  magic,  was  upon  him  too.  He  was 
consciously  removed. 

Mrs.  Chadwick  sprang  up  to  greet  them.    "This 
is  nice!"  she  cried,  and  her  knitting  trailed  behind 


200  ADR1ENNE  TONER 

her  as  she  came  so  that  Barbara,  laughing,  stooped 
to  catch  and  pick  it  up  as  she  followed  her;  "I  was 
expecting  you !  How  nice  and  dear  of  you !  On  this 
hot  day!  I  always  think  the  very  fishes  must  feel 
warm  on  a  day  like  this!  Or  could  they,  do  you 
think?  —  Dear  Roger!"  There  was  an  evident  al 
tering  in  Mrs.  Chadwick's  manner  towards  him 
since  the  meeting  in  the  Park.  She  was,  with  all  her 
fluster,  manifestly  glad  to  see  him. 

Palgrave  had  hoisted  himself  to  his  feet  and  now 
stood  beside  Adrienne,  eyeing  them  as  a  faithful 
hound  eyes  suspicious  visitors.  - 

"Isn't  it  lovely  in  the  shade,"  Mrs.  Chadwick 
continued,  drawing  them  into  it.  "Adrienne  darl 
ing,  Aunt  Monica  after  all.  And  we  were  afraid  the 
heat  might  keep  you  away.  I  suppose  the  hill  was 
very  hot,  Monica?"  Adrienne  was  still,  apparently, 
something  of  an  invalid,  for  she  did  not  rise  to  greet 
them.  Neither  did  she  speak  as  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  each  of  them  in  turn,  and  while  an  envelop 
ing  smile  dwelt  fondly  on  Mrs.  Averil,  she  made  no 
attempt  to  smile  at  Oldmeadow. 

He  found  himself  observing  her  with  a  sort  of 
wonder.  All  the  flaws  and  deformities  of  her  mater 
nity  had  fallen  from  her  and  she  had  the  appearance 
almost  of  beauty.  Yet  he  had  never  so  little  liked 
her  face.  Her  dimly  patterned  features  made  him 
think  of  a  Chinese  picture  he  had  once  seen  where, 
on  a  moth- wing  background,  pale  chrysanthemums, 
mauvy-pink,  a  disk  of  carved  jade  with  cord  and 
tassel  and  a  narrow  ivory  box  softly  spotted  with 
darkness,  conveyed  in  their  seeming  triviality  an 
impression  almost  sinister  of  impersonality  and 
magic.  There  was  as  little  feeling  in  her  face.  It 
was  like  a  mask. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  201 

"Where's  Nancy?"  Barney  asked.  He  had  got 
up  and  joined  them,  giving  Oldmeadow's  hand,  as 
they  met,  a  curiously  lifeless  shake. 

"She  had  letters  to  write,"  said  Mrs.  Averil. 

"Why,  I  thought  we'd  arranged  she  was  to  come 
up  and  walk  round  the  farm  after  tea  with  me," 
said  Barney  and  as  he  spoke  Oldmeadow  noted  that 
Adrienne  turned  her  head  slowly,  somewhat  as  she 
had  done  on  the  ominous  morning  in  March,  and 
rested  her  eyes  upon  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Mrs.  Averil  cheerfully. 
"She  must  have  misunderstood.  She  had  these  let 
ters  to  finish  for  the  post." 

Barbara  was  reconnoitring  at  the  tea-table. 
"Strawberries!"  she  announced.  "Who  said  they'd 
be  over?  Oh,  what  a  shame  of  Nancy  not  to  come! 
Roger,  why  aren't  you  staying  here  rather  than 
with  Aunt  Monica,  I'd  like  to  know?  Aren't  we 
grand  enough  for  you  since  she 's  had  that  bathroom 
put  in!"  Barbara  had  advanced  to  a  lively  flapper- 
dom. 

"You  see,  by  this  plan,  I  get  the  bath  with  her 
and  get  you  when  she  brings  me  up,"  Oldmeadow 
retorted. 

"And  leave  Nancy  behind !  I  call  it  a  shame  when 
we're  having  the  last  strawberries  —  and  you  may 
have  a  bathroom  with  Aunt  Monica,  but  her  straw 
berries  are  over.  Letters !  Whoever  heard  of  Nancy 
writing  letters  —  except  to  you,  Barney.  She  was 
always  writing  to  you  when  you  were  living  in  Lon 
don  —  before  you  married.  And  what  screeds  you 
used  to  send  her —  all  about  art! "  said  Barbara,  and 
that  her  liveliness  cast  a  spell  of  silence  was  appar 
ent  to  everyone  but  herself. 


202  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Mrs.  Chadwick  took  Oldmeadow's  arm  and  drew 
him  aside.  "You'll  be  able  to  come  later  and 
be  quite  with  us,  won't  you,  Roger?"  she  said 
"September  is  really  a  lovelier  month,  don't  you 
think?  Adrienne  is  going  to  take  Palgrave  and  Bar 
bara  for  a  motor-trip  in  September.  Won't  it  be 
lovely  for  them?"  Mrs.  Chadwick  spoke  with  a 
swiftness  that  did  not  veil  a  sense  of  insecurity. 
"Barbara's  never  seen  the  Alps.  They  are  going  to 
the  Tyrol." 

"  If  we  don't  have  a  European  war  by  then,"  Old- 
meadow  suggested.  "What  is  Barney  going  to  do? " 

"Oh,  Barney  is  going  to  the  Barclay's  in  Scot 
land,  to  shoot.  He  loves  that.  A  war,  Roger?  What 
do  you  mean?  All  those  tiresome  Serbians?  Why, 
they  won't  go  into  the  Tyrol,  will  they?" 

"Perhaps  not  the  Tyrol;  but  they  may  make  it 
difficult  for  other  people  to  go  there." 

"Do  you  hear  what  Roger  is  saying?"  Mrs. 
Chadwick  turned  to  her  family.  "That  the  Ser 
bians  may  make  war  by  September  and  that  it 
might  interfere  with  the  trip.  But  I'm  sure  Sir  Ed 
ward  will  quiet  them.  He  always  does.  Though  he 
is  a  Liberal,  I've  always  felt  him  to  be  such  a  good 
man,"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick,  "and  really  patriotic. 
Simply  sitting  round  a  table  with  him  cools  their 
heads  more  than  one  would  believe  possible. 
Dreadfully  violent  people,  I  believe,  killing  their 
kings  and  queens  and  throwing  them  out  of  the 
window.  I  always  think  there's  nothing  in  the 
world  for  controlling  people's  tempers  like  getting 
them  to  sit  together  round  a  table.  I  wonder  why 
it  is.  Something  to  do  with  having  your  legs  out  of 
the  way,  perhaps.  People  don't  look  nearly  so 


ADRIENNE  TONER  203 

threatening  if  their  legs  are  hidden,  do  they?  My 
poor  cousin,  Fanny  Jocelyn,  used  always  to  say  that 
if  any  of  the  clergymen  in  Fred's  diocese  got  very 
troublesome  her  one  recipe  was  to  ask  them  to 
lunch,  or,  if  they  were  very  bad,  to  dinner.  But  she 
had  wonderful  tact  —  that  gift,  you  know,  for 
seeming  to  care  simply  immensely  for  the  person  she 
was  talking  to.  Francis  used  to  tell  her  that  when 
she  looked  at  you  as  if  you  were  the  only  person  in 
the  world  she  loved  she  was  really  working  out  her 
next  menu." 

"  I'm  afraid  if  war  comes  it  won't  be  restricted  to 
people,  like  Serbians  and  clergymen,  who  can  be 
quieted  by  being  asked  to  dinner,"  said  Oldmeadow 
laughing.  "We'll  be  fighting,  too." 

"And  who  will  we  fight?"  Palgrave  inquired. 
After  passing  tea,  he  had  resumed  his  place  at  Ad- 
rienne's  feet.  "Who  has  been  getting  in  our  way 
now?" 

"Don't  you  read  the  papers?"  Oldmeadow  asked 
him. 

"Not  when  I  can  avoid  it,"  said  Palgrave. 
"They'll  be  bellowing  out  the  same  old  Jingo  stuff 
on  the  slightest  provocation,  of  course.  As  far  as  I 
can  make  out  the  Serbians  are  the  most  awful 
brutes  and  Russia  is  egging  them  on.  But  when  it 
comes  to  a  crime  against  humanity  like  war,  every 
one  is  responsible." 

"Are  you  ready  for  strawberries,  Aunt  Monica," 
Barbara  interposed.  "If  there  is  a  war,  I  hope  we 
may  be  in  it  so  that  I  can  do  some  of  my  first  aid  on 
real  people  at  last." 

She  was  carrying  strawberries  now  to  Adrienne 
who,  as  she  leaned  down,  took  her  gently  by  the 


204  ADRIENNE  TONER 

wrist,  and  said  some  low-toned  words  to  her.  "I 
know,  my  angel.  Horrid  of  me!"  said  Barbara.  "But 
one  can't  take  war  seriously,  can  one!" 

"I  can,"  said  Mrs.  Averil.  "Too  many  of  my 
friends  had  their  sons  and  husbands  killed  in  South 
Africa." 

"And  it's  human  nature,"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick, 
eating  her  strawberries  mournfully.  "Like  the  poor: 
whom  you  have  always  with  you,  you  know." 

"Human  nature  is  altered  already  a  good  deal 
more  than  governments  imagine,"  said  Palgrave, 
"and  they'll  find  themselves  pretty  well  dished  if 
they  try  to  bring  on  a  capitalist  war  now.  The 
workers  all  over  the  world  are  beginning  to  see  whose 
the  hands  are  that  pull  the  strings  and  they'll  refuse 
to  dance  to  their  piping.  They'll  down  weapons  just 
as  they've  learned,  at  last,  to  down  tools;  and  with 
out  them  you  can  do  nothing.  That's  the  way  hu 
man  nature  will  end  war." 

"A  spirited  plan,  no  doubt,"  said  Oldmeadow, 
"and  effective  if  all  the  workers  came  to  be  of  the 
same  mind  simultaneously.  But  if  those  of  one 
country  downed  weapons  and  those  of  another 
didn't,  the  first  would  get  their  throats  cut  for  their 
pains." 

"It's  easy  to  sneer,"  Palgrave  retorted.  "As  a 
matter  of  principle,  I'd  rather  have  my  throat  cut 
by  a  hired  ruffian  than  kill  an  innocent  man  —  even 
if  he  did  belong  to  a  nation  that  happened  to  be 
cleverer  and  more  efficient  than  my  own.  That's  a 
crime,  of  course,  that  we  can't  forgive." 

"Don't  talk  such  rot,  Palgrave,"  Barney  now  re 
marked  in  a  tone  of  apathetic  disgust. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Palgrave  sat  up  instantly, 


ADRIENNE  TONER  205 

flushing  all  over  his  face.  "I  think  it's  truth  and 
sanity." 

"It's  not  truth  and  sanity.  It's  rot  and  stupid 
rot,"  said  Barney.  "Some  more  tea,  please,  Bar 
bara." 

"Calling  names  isn't  argument,"  said  Palgrave. 
"I  could  call  names,  too,  if  it  came  to  that.  It's 
calling  names  that  is  stupid.  I  merely  happen  to  be 
lieve  in  what  Christ  said." 

"Oh,  but,  dear  —  Christ  drove  the  money-lenders 
out  of  the  Temple  very,  very  roughly,"  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick  interposed  with  the  head-long  irrelevance  char 
acteristic  of  her  in  such  crises.  "Thongs  must  hurt 
so  much,  mustn't  they?  He  surely  believed  in  pun 
ishing  people  who  did  wrong." 

"Which  nation  doesn't  do  wrong,  Mummy? 
Which  nation  is  a  Christ  with  a  right  to  punish  an 
other?  It's  farcical.  And  punishing  isn't  killing. 
Christ  didn't  kill  malefactors." 

"The  Gadarene  swine,"  Mrs.  Chadwick  mur 
mured.  "They  were  killed.  So  painfully,  too,  poor 
things.  I  never  could  understand  about  that.  I  hope 
the  Higher  Criticism  will  manage  to  get  rid  of  it,  for 
it  doesn't  really  seem  kind.  They  had  done  no 
wrong  at  all  and  I've  always  been  specially  fond  of 
pigs  myself." 

"Ah,  but  you  never  saw  a  pig  with  a  devil  in  it," 
Oldmeadow  suggested,  to  which  Mrs.  Chadwick 
murmured,  "I'm  sure  they  seem  to  have  devils  in 
them,  sometimes,  poor  dears,  when  they  won't  let 
themselves  be  caught.  Do  get  some  more  cream, 
Barbara.  It's  really  too  hot  for  arguments,  isn't  it," 
and  Mrs.  Chadwick  sighed  with  the  relief  of  having 
rounded  that  dangerous  corner. 


206  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Barbara  went  away  with  the  cream-jug  and  John 
son  emerged  bearing  the  afternoon  post. 

"Ah.  Letters.  Good."  Palgrave  sat  up  to  take 
his  and  Adrienne's  share.  "One  for  you,  Adrienne; 
from  Meg.  Now  we  shall  see  what  she  says  about 
meeting  us  in  the  Tyrol."  His  cheeks  were  still 
flushed  and  his  eyes  brilliant  with  anger.  Though 
his  words  were  for  Adrienne  his  voice  was  for  Barney, 
at  whom  he  did  not  glance. 

Adrienne  unfolded  the  foreign  sheets,  and  held 
them  so  that  Palgrave,  leaning  against  her  knee, 
could  read  with  her. 

Mrs.  Chadwick  had  grown  crimson.  She  looked 
at  Oldmeadow.  "  Dear  Meg  is  having  such  an  inter 
esting  time,"  she  told  him.  "She  and  Eric  are  see 
ing  all  manner  of  delightful  places  and  picking  up 
some  lovely  bits  of  old  furniture."  Oldmeadow 
bowed  assent.  He  had  his  eyes  on  Adrienne  and  he 
was  wondering  about  Barbara. 

"What  news  is  there,  dear?  "  Mrs.  Chadwick  con 
tinued  in  the  same  badly  controlled  voice.  Pal- 
grave's  face  had  clouded. 

"I'm  afraid  it  may  be  bad  news,  Mother  Nell," 
said  Adrienne  looking  up. 

It  was  the  first  time  Oldmeadow  had  heard  her 
voice  that  afternoon  and  he  could  hardly  have  be 
lieved  it  the  voice  that  had  once  reminded  him  of  a 
blue  ribbon.  It  was  still  slow,  still  deliberate  and 
soft ;  but  it  had  now  the  steely  thrust  and  intention 
of  a  dagger. 

"  It's  this  accursed  war  talk ! "  Palgrave  exclaimed. 
"  Eric  evidently  thinks  it  serious  and  he  has  to  come 
home  at  once.  What  rotten  luck." 

Adrienne  handed  the  sheets  to  Mrs.  Chadwick. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  207 

"It  will  all  have  blown  over  by  September,"  she 
said.  "As  Mother  Nell  says,  we  can  trust  Sir  Ed 
ward  to  keep  us  out  of  anything  so  wicked  as  a  war. 
I  am  so  completely  with  you  in  all  you  say  about  the 
wickedness  of  war,  Paladin,  although  I  do  not  see  its 
causes  quite  so  simply,  perhaps." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Oldmeadow  had  heard 
the  new  name  for  her  knight. 

"For  my  part,"  said  Barney,  casting  a  glance  at 
the  house,  Barbara  not  having  yet  reappeared,  "I 
shall  be  grateful  to  the  war  if  it  dishes  your  trip  to 
the  Tyrol.  It's  most  unsuitable  for  Barbara." 

He  did  not  look  at  his  wife  as  he  spoke.  His  hat- 
brim  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  he  sat  with  folded 
arms  and  stared  in  front  of  him. 

"You  find  it  unsuitable  for  one  sister  to  meet 
another?"  Adrienne  inquired.  Her  eyes  were  on 
Barney,  but  Oldmeadow  could  not  interpret  their 
gaze. 

"Most  unsuitable,  to  use  no  stronger  word," 
said  Barney,  "while  one  sister  is  living  with  a  man 
whose  name  she  doesn't  bear." 

"You  mean  to  say,"  said  Palgrave,  sitting  cross- 
legged  at  Adrienne's  feet  and  grasping  his  ankles 
with  both  hands,  "that  Meg,  until  she's  legally 
married,  isn't  fit  for  her  little  sister  to  associate 
with?" 

"Just  what  I  do  mean,  Palgrave.  Precisely  what 
I  do  mean,"  said  Barney,  and  his  face,  reddening, 
took  on  its  rare  but  characteristic  expression  of 
sullen  anger.  "And  I'll  thank  you  • —  in  my  house, 
after  all  —  to  keep  out  of  an  argument  that  doesn't 
concern  you." 

"Barney;  Palgrave,"  murmured  Mrs.  Chadwick 


208  ADRIENNE  TONER 

supplicatingly.  Adrienne,  not  moving  her  eyes  from 
her  husband's  face,  laid  her  hand  on  Palgrave's 
shoulder. 

"It  does  concern  me,"  said  Palgrave,  and  he  put 
up  his  hand  and  grasped  Adrienne's.  "Barbara's 
well-being  concerns  me  as  much  as  it  does  you ;  and 
your  wife's  happiness  concerns  me  a  good  deal  more. 
I  can  promise  you  that  I  wouldn't  trouble  your  hos 
pitality  for  another  day  if  it  weren't  for  her  —  and 
Mother.  It's  perfectly  open  to  you,  of  course,  to 
turn  me  out  of  my  home  whenever  you  like  to  make 
use  of  your  legal  privilege.  But  until  I'm  turned  out 
I  stay  —  for  their  sakes." 

"You  young  ass!  You  unmitigated  young  ass!" 
Barney  snarled,  springing  to  his  feet.  "All  right, 
Mother.  Don't  bother.  I'll  leave  you  to  your  pro 
tector  for  the  present.  I  only  wish  he  were  young 
enough  to  be  given  what  he  needs  —  a  thorough 
good  hiding.  I'll  go  down  and  see  Nancy.  Don't 
expect  me  back  to  dinner." 

"Nancy  is  busy,  my  dear,"  poor  Mrs.  Averil, 
deeply  flushing,  interposed,  while  Palgrave,  under 
his  breath,  yet  audibly,  murmured:  "Truly  Kip- 
lingesque!  Home  and  Hidings!  Our  Colonial  his 
tory  summed  up!" 

"She  would  be  here  if  she  weren't  busy,"  said 
Mrs.  Averil. 

"I  won't  bother  her,"  said  Barney.  "I'll  sit  in 
the  garden  and  read.  It's  more  peaceful  than  being 
here." 

"  Please  tell. dear  Nancy  that  it's  ten  days  at  least 
since  I've  seen  her,"  said  Adrienne,  "and  that  I  miss 
her  and  beg  that  she'll  give  me,  sometime,  a  few  of 
her  spare  moments." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  209 

At  that  Barney  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  his 
wife.  "No,  Adrienne,  I  won't,"  he  said  with  a 
startling  directness.  "I'll  take  no  messages  what 
ever  from  you  to  Nancy.  Let  Nancy  alone  —  do 
you  see?  That's  all  I've  got  to  ask  of  you.  Let  her 
alone.  She  and  Aunt  Monica  are  the  only  people 
you  haven't  set  against  me  and  I  don't  intend  to 
quarrel  with  Nancy  to  please  you,  I  promise  you." 

Sitting  motionless  and  upright,  her  hand  laid  on 
Palgrave's  shoulder,  her  face  as  unalterable  as  a 
little  mask,  Adrienne  received  these  well-aimed 
darts  as  a  Saint  Sebastian  might  have  received  the 
arrows.  Barney  stared  hard  at  her  for  a  moment, 
then  turned  his  back  and  marched  out  into  the  sun 
light  and  Oldmeadow,  as  he  saw  him  go,  felt  that  he 
witnessed  the  end,  as  he  had,  little  more  than  a  year 
ago,  witnessed  the  beginning,  of  an  epoch.  What 
was  there  left  to  build  on  after  such  a  scene?  And 
what  must  have  passed  between  husband  and  wife 
during  their  hours  of  intimacy  to  make  it  credible? 
Barney  was  not  a  brute. 

When  Barney  had  turned  through  the  entrance 
gates  and  disappeared — Adrienne 's  eyes  dropped  to 
Palgrave's.  "I  think  I'll  go  in,  Paladin,"  she  said, 
and  it  was  either  with  faintness  or  with  the  mere 
stillness  of  her  rage.  "I  think  I'll  lie  down  for  a 
little  while." 

Palgrave  had  leaped  to  his  feet  and,  as  she  rose, 
drew  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  Mrs.  Chadwick, 
her  eyes  staring  wide,  hastened  to  her:  but  Adrienne 
gently  put  her  away.  "  No,  no,  dearest  Mother  Nell. 
Paladin  will  help  me.  You  must  stay  with  Aunt 
Monica  and  Mr.  Oldmeadow."  Her  hand  rested  for 
a  moment  on  Mrs.  Chadwick's  shoulder  and  she 


210  ADRIENNE  TONER 

looked  into  her  eyes.  "I'm  so  sorry,  Mother  Nell. 
I  meant  no  harm." 

"Oh,  my  darling  child !  As  if  I  did  not  know 
that!"  Mrs.  Chad  wick  moaned  and,  as  Adrienne 
moved  away,  she  turned  as  if  half  distraught  to  her 
two  friends.  "Oh,  it's  dreadful!  dreadful!"  she 
nearly  wept.  "Oh,  how  can  he  treat  her  so  —  before 
you  all!  It's  breaking  my  heart!" 

Barbara  came  running  out  with  the  cream. 
"Great  Scott!"  she  exclaimed,  stopping  short. 
"What's  become  of  everybody?" 

"They've  all  gone,  dear.  Yes,  we've  all  finished. 
No  one  wants  any  more  strawberries.  Take  yours 
away,  will  you,  dear,  we  want  to  have  a  little  talk, 
Aunt  Monica,  Roger  and  I." 

"I  suppose  it's  Barney  again,"  said  Barbara, 
standing  still  and  gazing  indignantly  around  her. 
"Where's  Adrienne?" 

"She  has  gone  to  lie  down,  dear.  Yes.  Barney 
has  been  very  unkind." 

"About  my  trip,  I  suppose?  He's  been  too  odious 
about  my  trip  and  it's  only  the  other  day  he  made 
Adrienne  cry.  What  possible  business  is  it  of  Bar 
ney's,  I'd  like  to  know?  One  would  think  he 
imagined  that  wives  and  sisters  were  a  sort  of 
chattel.  Why  mayn't  I  stay,  Mother  —  if  you're 
going  to  talk  about  my  trip?  Adrienne  has  explained 
everything  to  me  and  I  think  Meg  was  quite  right 
and  I'd  do  the  same  myself  if  I  were  in  her  place.  So 
I'm  perfectly  able  to  understand." 

"I  know,  dear;  I  know;  Adrienne  is  so  wonderful. 
But  don't  say  things  like  that,  I  beg  of  you,  for  it 
makes  me  very,  very  unhappy.  And  please  run  away 
for  a  little  while,  for  we  have  other  things  to  talk  of. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  211 

I'm  afraid  there  may  be  no  trip  at  all,  Barbara; 
Meg  may  be  coming  home  at  once.  The  letters  had 
news  about  it,  and  Eric  has  to  go  to  the  war  —  if 
there  is  a  war,  you  see."  Mrs.  Chadwick  spoke  with 
a  supplicatory  note  very  unlike  her  usual  placid  if 
complaining  authority. 

"But  I'd  like  to  hear  about  the  letters,  then.  Do 
we  really  have  to  give  up  the  trip?  I'm  sure  it's 
Barney  at  the  bottom  of  it.  He's  been  trying  to  dish 
it  from  the  first  and  I  simply  won't  stand  it  from 
him." 

"It's  not  Barney  at  all,  Barbara.  You  shall  hear 
all  that  there  is  to  hear.  And  you  mustn't,  really, 
forget  that  Barney  is  your  elder  brother  and  has 
some  right  to  say  what  you  should  do  —  even  though 
we  mayn't  agree  with  him." 

"No,  he  hasn't.  Not  an  atom,"  Barbara  declared. 
"  If  anyone  has  any  right,  except  you,  it's  Adrienne, 
because  she's  a  bigger,  wiser  person  than  any  of  us." 

"And  since  you've  borne  your  testimony,  Bar 
bara,"  Oldmeadow  suggested,  "you  might  obey  your 
mother  and  give  us  the  benefit  of  your  experience 
on  an  occasion  when  it's  invited." 

"Oh,  I  know  you're  against  Adrienne,  Roger," 
said  Barbara,  but  with  a  sulkiness  that  showed  sur 
render.  "  I  shan't  force  myself  on  you,  I  assure  you, 
and  girls  of  fifteen  aren't  quite  the  infants  in  arms 
you  may  imagine.  If  Adrienne  weren't  here  to 
stand  up  for  me  I  don't  know  where  I'd  be.  Because, 
you  know,  you  are  weak,  Mother.  Yes  you  are. 
You've  been  really  wobbling  like  anything  about 
my  trip  and  trying  to  wriggle  out  of  it  whenever  you 
had  a  loop-hole,  and  Adrienne  thinks  you're  weak, 
I  know,  for  she  told  me  so,  and  said  we  must  help 


212  ADRIENNE  TONER 

you  to  be  brave  and  strong  and  that  you  belonged 
to  a  generation  that  had  its  eyes  tightly  bandaged 
from  birth.  So  there!"  And  delivering  this  effec 
tive  shot,  Barbara  marched  away,  not  forgetting  to 
pick  up  her  plate  of  strawberries  as  she  passed  the 
table. 

Mrs.  Chadwick  attempted  to  conceal  her  confu 
sion  by  following  her  child's  retreating  figure  with 
grave  disapprobation  and  Oldmeadow  seized  the 
propitious  moment  to  remark:  ''I  can't.help  feeling 
that  there's  something  to  be  said  for  Barney,  all  the 
same.  His  wife  has  set  you  all  against  him,  hasn't 
she?  I  suspect  Barbara's  right,  too,  my  dear  friend, 
and  that  in  your  heart  of  hearts  you  dislike  this  trip 
of  hers  as  much  as  he  does.  Certainly  Barbara  isn't 
a  very  pleasing  example  of  Adrienne's  influence." 

"She  is  very  naughty,  very  naughty  and  rebel 
lious,  "poor  Mrs.  Chadwick  murmured,  twisting  and 
untwisting  her  handkerchief.  "I  know  I've  not  a 
strong  character,  but  I  never  spoiled  my  children 
and  dear  Adrienne  does,  I  feel,  spoil  Barbara  by 
taking  her  so  seriously  and  talking  to  her  as  if  she 
were  grown  up,  you  know.  I  had  an  aunt  who 
married  at  sixteen;  but  it  didn't  turn  out  at  all 
happily.  They  quarrelled  constantly  and  she  had 
two  sets  of  twins,  poor  thing  —  almost  like  a  judg 
ment,  dear  Mamma  used  to  say.  But  of  course  Bar 
bara  is  really  too  young  to  understand;  and  so  I've 
told  dear  Adrienne.  Not  that  she  isn't  perfectly 
frank  about  it.  She's  told  me  over  and  over  again 
that  weakness  was  my  besetting  danger  and  that 
I  must  stand  up  straight  and  let  the  winds  of  free 
dom  blow  away  my  cobwebs.  So  dear  and  original, 
always,  you  know.  And  of  course  I  see  her  point  of 


ADRIENNE  TONER  213 

view  and  Barbara  will,  no  doubt,  be  a  bigger,  finer 
person"  -  Mrs.  Chad  wick's  voice  trailed  off  in  its 
echo.  "But  I  don't  agree  with  you,  Roger;  I  don't 
agree  with  you  at  all!"  she  took  up  with  sudden  ve 
hemence,  "about  the  trip.  I  don't  agree  that  my 
poor  Meg  is  a  leper  to  be  avoided  until  a  legal  cere 
mony  has  been  performed.  I  think  that  a  cruel  con 
vention  —  cruel,  base  and  cowardly.  She  must  have 
suffered  so  much  already.  Nothing  will  give  her  so 
much  courage  as  for  us  to  be  seen  standing  by  her. 
Adrienne  has  explained  all  that  most  beautifully  to 
Barbara.  And  how  true  love  is  the  most  sacred 
thing  in  life." 

"  My  dear  friend,  Meg  isn't  a  leper,  of  course,  and 
we  all  intend  to  stand  by  her.  But  it  is  certainly 
best  that  a  young  girl  like  Barbara  shouldn't  be 
asked  to  meet,  or  understand,  or  exonerate  such 
difficult  situations." 

"That's  what  I've  tried  to  say  to  Eleanor,"  Mrs. 
Averil  murmured. 

"And  why  not,  Roger!  Why  not!"  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick  cried,  surprisingly  yet  not  convincingly 
aroused.  "Nothing  develops  the  character  so  much 
as  facing  and  understanding  difficulty.  And  as  for 
exoneration  —  I  don't  agree  with  you,  and  Adrienne 
doesn't  agree.  You  and  Monica  are  conventional 
ists  and  we  must  live  on  a  higher  plane  than  conven 
tion.  I'm  sure  I  try  to,  though  it's  very  hard  some 
times,  but  the  noblest  things  are  hardest.  There  is 
nothing  to  exonerate.  Meg  was  following  her  own 
light  in  doing  what  she  did." 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  Meg,  but  of  her  situation," 
Oldmeadow  returned. 

"And  because  of  her  situation,  because  she  is  so  in 


214  ADRIENNE  TONER 

need  of  help  and  loyalty,  you  ask  that  Barbara 
should  draw  back  her  skirts  from  her !  Oh !  I  knew 
it!"  cried  Mrs.  Chadwick,  "I  knew  that  you  would 
feel  like  that !  That  is  why  I  felt  it  would  be  happier 
if  you  were  not  here  with  Adrienne. 

"You  need  hardly  tell  me  that,"  said  Oldmeadow 
smiling.  "But  it's  not  a  question  of  convention,  ex 
cept  in  so  far  as  convention  means  right  feeling  and 
good  taste.  Meg,  whatever  her  lights  —  and  per 
sonally  I  don't  believe  that  she  followed  them  —  has 
done  something  that  involves  pain  and  humiliation 
for  all  concerned  with  her,  and  whether  she  was  or 
was  not  justified  in  doing  it  is  a  moral  problem  that 
a  child  shouldn't  be  asked  to  meet.  Such  problems 
should  be  kept  from  her  until  she  is  old  enough  to 
understand  them." 

Mrs.  Chadwick's  vehemence  had  only  fictitiously 
sustained  her.  It  dropped  from  her  now  and  for  a 
little  while  she  sat  silent,  and  the  confusion  of  her 
heart  was  piteously  revealed  to  her  friend  as  she 
said  at  last,  "  If  there  is  a  war,  it  will  all  settle  itself, 
won't  it,  for  then  Barbara  couldn't  go.  I  don't  try 
to  wriggle  out  of  it.  That's  most  unfair  and  untrue. 
I've  promised  Adrienne  and  I  agree  with  Adrienne 
about  it.  I  can't  explain  it  clearly,  as  she  does;  it's 
all  quite,  quite  different  when  Adrienne  explains  it. 
She  seems  to  hold  me  up  and  you  and  Monica  pull  me 
down  —  oh,  yes,  you  do,  Roger.  Of  course  it  would 
kill  me  -  -  I  know  that  I  should  die,  if  Barbara  were 
to  do  what  Meg  has  done;  you  mustn't  think  Ad 
rienne  wants  her  to  behave  like  that,  you  know. 
Adrienne  only  wants  people  to  be  brave  and  follow 
their  light;  but  your  light  needn't  be  a  married  man, 
need  it?  And  sometimes  I  think  it  isn't  really  so 


ADRIENNE  TONER  215 

serious  —  falling  in  love,  you  know.  I'm  sure  I 
thought  /  was  in  love  half  a  dozen  times  before 
Francis  proposed.  It's  a  question  of  seeing  what's 
best  for  you  all  round,  isn't  it,  and  it  can't  be  best  if 
it's  a  married  man,  can  it?  Oh!  I  know  I'm  saying 
what  Adrienne  wouldn't  like,  now;  because  it  sounds 
so  worldly  and  as  if  I  believed  in  the  French  way. 
But  I  don't  at  all.  I  think  love's  everything,  too. 
Only  it  always  seemed  to  me  when  I  was  a  girl  that 
love  meant  white  satin  and  orange-blossoms;  and 
my  poor,  poor  Meg  can  never  wear  those  now.  I 
should  feel  miserable,  quite  miserable  about  her,  of 
course,  if  Adrienne  were  n't  here  to  make  me  see  the 
big,  real  things  instead  of  the  little  ones.  And  Bar 
ney  has  been  so  unkind.  Sneering  and  scoffing  at 
everything"  -her  voice  quivered.  "However,  if 
there's  a  war,  that  will  settle  it.  Barbara  couldn't 
go  if  there  was  a  war." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  war  thus  had  its  uses  to  Mrs.  Chadwick.  Bar 
bara  did  not  go  to  the  Tyrol.  By  the  end  of  Septem 
ber  Oldmeadow  and  Barney  were  in  training,  one  on 
the  Berkshire  and  one  on  the  Wiltshire  downs,  and 
Meg  was  ambiguously  restored  to  her  family  at  Cold- 
brooks. 

Oldmeadow  had  not  seen  Barney  for  many  days, 
when  they  met  one  afternoon  at  Paddington  and 
travelled  together  as  far  as  Didcot.  They  had  the 
carriage  to  themselves  and  though  Barney's  de 
meanour  was  reticent  there  were  many  things  about 
which,  it  was  evident,  he  found  it  a  relief  to  be  com 
municative.  It  was  from  him  that  Oldmeadow 
learned  of  Meg's  return. 

"She'll  be  in  a  pretty  box,  won't  she,  if  Hayward 
is  killed,"  he  said,  smoking  his  cigarette  and  not 
looking  at  his  friend.  "He's  over  there,  you  know, 
and  for  my  part  I  think  there's  very  little  chance  of 
any  of  them  coming  back  alive." 

They  both  smoked  in  silence  for  a  little  while 
after  this,  contemplating  the  ordeal  in  which  their 
country  was  involved  rather  than  their  own  relation 
to  it;  but  Oldmeadow's  mind  returned  presently  to 
Barney's  difficulties  and  he  asked  him  if  it  had  been 
to  see  Hayward  off  that  he'd  just  been  up  to  London. 

Barney,  at  this,  had  a  quiet  sardonic  laugh. 
"Good  heavens,  no,"  he  said.  "Hayward  went  in 
the  first  week  and  Adrienne  and  Palgrave  went  up 
with  Meg  to  see  him  off.  Even  if  I'd  wanted  to, 
I'd  have  been  allowed  to  have  no  hand  in  that. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  217 

Adrienne  is  seeing  to  it  all.  Lawyers,  money,  I  don't 
know  what.  No ;  I  went  up  to  spend  my  leave  with 
old  Boyd  at  his  place  in  Chelsea.  I  didn't  want  to 
go  home.  Home  is  the  last  place  I  want  to  be  just 
now." 

Oldmeadow  at  this  maintained  a  silence  that 
could  not  pretend  surprise  and  Barney  continued  in 
a  moment.  "Palgrave  isn't  coming  in,  you  know." 

"You  mean  he's  carrying  out  his  pacifist  ideas?" 

"  If  they  are  his,"  said  Barney  in  his  colourless  yet 
sardonic  voice.  "Any  ideas  of  Palgrave's  are  likely 
to  be  Adrienne 's,  you  know.  She  got  hold  of  him 
from  the  first." 

"Well,  after  all,"  Oldmeadow  after  another  mo 
ment  felt  impelled  to  say,  "She  got  hold  of  you,  too. 
In  the  same  way;  by  believing  in  herself  and  by 
understanding  you.  She  thinks  she's  right." 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Barney  and  for  a  moment,  an 
acutely  uncomfortable  one  for  Oldmeadow,  he 
turned  his  eyes  on  his  friend.  "Thinks  she's  right! 
You  needn't  tell  me  that,  Roger!" 

It  had  indeed,  Oldmeadow  felt,  hardly  been  de 
cent  of  him. 

"  I  know.  Of  course  she  would.  But,  all  the  same, 
people  must  be  allowed  to  hold  their  own  opinions." 

"  Must  they?"  said  Barney.  "At  a  time  like  this? 
Adrienne  must,  of  course;  as  a  woman  she  doesn't 
come  into  it;  she  brings  other  people  in,  that  is  to 
say,  and  keeps  out  herself.  Besides  she's  an  Ameri 
can.  But  Palgrave  shouldn't  be  allowed  the  choice. 
He's  dishonouring  us  all  —  as  Meg  has  done.  Poor, 
foolish,  wretched  Mother!  She's  seeing  it  at  last, 
though  she  won't  allow  herself  to  say  it,  or,  rather, 
Adrienne  won't  allow  her  — "  He  checked  himself. 


218  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"Dishonour  is  a  strong  word,  Barney.  Palgrave 
is  hardly  more  than  a  boy." 

"Jim  Errington  is  a  year  younger  than  Palgrave, 
and  Peter  Layard  six  months.  They're  both  in.  I 
don't  think  nineteen  is  too  young  to  dishonour  your 
family.  If  Palgrave  committed  a  murder,  he'd  be 
hanged.  But  it  will  no  doubt  come  to  conscription 
and  then  we'll  see  where  he'll  find  himself.  Herded 
in  as  a  Tommy.  All  this  talk  of  a  few  months  is 
folly." 

"I  know.  Yes.  Folly,"  said  Oldmeadow  ab 
sently.  "Have  you  tried  to  have  it  out  with  Pal 
grave,  Barney?  If  he  only  hears  Adrienne's  side 
what  can  you  expect  of  him?  If  you  leave  them  all 
to  sink  or  swim  without  you,  you  mustn't  blame 
Adrienne  for  steering  as  best  she  can." 

"Sink  or  swim  without  me!"  Barney  echoed. 
"Why  they'd  none  of  them  listen  to  me.  You  saw 
well  enough  how  it  was  with  them  that  day  in  July 
when  you  came  up.  Adrienne  is  twice  as  strong  as 
I  am  when  it  comes  to  anything  like  a  struggle  and 
she  has  them  all  firmly  under  her  thumb.  She  steers 
because  she  intends  to  steer  and  intends  I  shan't. 
I've  tried  nothing  with  Palgrave,  except  to  keep  my 
hands  off  him.  Mother's  talked  to  him,  and  Meg's 
talked  to  him;  but  nothing  does  any  good.  Oh,  yes; 
Meg  hangs  on  Adrienne  because  she's  got  nothing 
else  to  hang  to;  but  she's  frightfully  down  on  Pal 
grave  all  the  same.  They're  all  united  against  me, 
but  they're  not  united  among  themselves  by  any 
means.  It's  not  a  peaceful  family  party  at  Cold- 
brooks,  I  promise  you.  Poor  Mother  spends  most  of 
her  time  shut  up  in  her  room  crying." 

Barney   offered  no  further  information  on  this 


ADRIENNE  TONER  219 

occasion  and  Old  meadow  asked  for  no  more.  It 
was  from  Mrs.  Aldesey,  some  weeks  later,  that 
he  heard  that  Eric  Hay  ward  had  been  killed. 
Mrs.  Aldesey  was  his  most  punctual  correspondent 
and  her  letters,  full  of  pungent,  apposite  accounts  of 
how  the  war  was  affecting  London,  the  pleasantest 
experiences  that  came  to  him  on  the  Berkshire 
downs,  where,  indeed,  he  did  not  find  life  unpleasant. 
Mrs.  Aldesey  made  time  for  these  long  letters  after 
tiring  days  spent  among  Belgian  refugees  and  his 
sense  of  comradeship  had  been  immensely  deepened 
by  the  vast,  new  experience  they  were,  from  their 
different  angles,  sharing.  It  was  difficult,  on  the  soft 
October  day,  to  dissociate  the  mere  pleasure  of  read 
ing  her  letter  from  the  miserable  news  she  gave.  Yet 
he  knew,  stretched  at  ease  after  strenuous  exercise, 
the  canvas  of  his  tent  idly  flapping  above  him  and 
the  sunlight  falling  across  his  feet,  that  it  was  very 
miserable  news  indeed  and  must  miserably  affect 
his  friends  at  Coldbrooks.  What  was  to  become  of 
poor  Meg  now?  And  after  his  mind  had  paused  on 
poor  Meg  a  pang  of  memory  brought  back  the  face 
of  his  setter  John.  Poor  Hayward. 

"She  must,  of  course,  find  some  work  at  once," 
Mrs.  Aldesey  wrote.  "The  war  does  help  to  solve 
problems  of  this  sort  as  nothing  else  before  ever 
could.  She  must  nurse,  or  drive  an  ambulance  and 
perhaps  by  the  time  it's  all  over  we'll  have  forgotten 
irrelevancies  that  happened  so  long  ago.  Sometimes 
it  feels  like  that  to  me  and  I  know  I'm  much  too  old 
to  face  the  world  that  will  have  grown  up  out  of  the 
wreckage  of  the  world  I  knew."  Mrs.  Aldesey,  still, 
always  spoke  of  herself  as  antique,  relegated  and  on 
the  shelf.  Rather  absurd  of  her,  as  her  friend  pointed 


220  ADRIENNE  TONER 

out  in  his  reply,  when  she  was  obviously  one  of  the 
people  who  were  going  to  make  the  new  world.  She 
was  organizing  the  Belgians  in  the  most  remarkable 
manner. 

As  to  Coldbrooks  he  hesitated.  He  could  hardly 
see  himself  writing  to  Mrs.  Chadwick  or  to  Meg. 
Of  Nancy  he  felt  a  little  shy.  There  would  be  too 
much  to  say  to  Nancy  if  he  said  anything  and  he 
allowed  the  anonymous  calamity  that  had  over 
taken  his  friends  to  pass  without  comment  or  con 
dolence.  But  after  an  interval  of  some  weeks  it  was 
from  Nancy  herself  that  he  heard.  Nancy  seemed 
always  to  be  selected  as  the  vehicle  for  other  people's 
emergencies. 

"Dear  Roger,"  she  wrote.  "You  have  heard  how 
very  unhappy  we  all  are.  It  is  dreadful  to  see  poor 
Meg,  and  Aunt  Eleanor  makes  it  really  worse  for 
her.  Meg  wears  mourning,  like  a  widow,  and  she  is 
terribly  bitter  about  Palgrave,  and  about  A.drienne, 
too.  Doesn't  that  seem  to  you  very  strange  and  un 
just?  Adrienne  is  doing  for  Palgrave  what  she  did 
for  Meg  —  standing  by  him.  It  is  all  more  unhappy 
than  you  can  imagine.  Palgrave  is  at  New  College, 
now,  you  know,  and  I'm  writing,  because  Aunt 
Eleanor's  one  hope  is  that  you  may  be  able  to  talk 
to  him.  Kindly,  you  know,  Roger;  and  not  as  if  you 
thought  him  a  criminal  or  a  coward;  that  is  worse 
than  useless,  naturally.  Palgrave  is  very  arrogant; 
but  you  know  what  a  tender  heart  he  really  has  and 
I  am  sure  that  he  is  very  lonely  and  unhappy.  So  be 
kind  and  understanding,  won't  you?  He  really  cares 
for  you  and  trusts  you  more  than  he  likes  to  show ;  and 
of  course  he  would  expect  you  to  be  against  him." 

Oldmeadow  was  going  into  Oxford  in  a  week's 


ADRIENNE  TONER  221 

time  and  he  wrote  to  Palgrave  and  asked  him  to 
give  him  tea.  "I've  got  to  talk  to  you,  if  you'll  let 
me,"  he  said,  "but  I  shan't  make  myself  a  nuisance, 
I  promise  you.  I  only  want  to  satisfy  myself  that 
you  have  thought  everything  out,  and  if  you  have 
I'll  be  able  to  tell  your  people  that  they  must  give 
up  tormenting  themselves  and  you  about  it.  I  shall 
like  talking  over  your  work  with  you,  too,  if  I  may, 
and  renewing  my  own  Oxford  memories."  So  con 
ciliatory,  so  affectionate  (and  he  found  it  easy  to  be 
affectionate  to  poor  Palgrave)  was  the  tone  of  the 
letter  that  he  had  a  swift  reply.  Palgrave  would  be 
very  glad  to  see  him. 

It  was  a  melancholy,  deserted  Oxford  into  which 
Oldmeadow  drove  his  lit^e  car  on  a  late  October 
afternoon.  Most  of  the  youths  he  saw  were  of  a 
nondescript  variety,  a  type  to  whom  Oxford  means 
scholastic  opportunity  and  nothing  more.  There 
were  dark-skinned  lads  from  distant  parts  of  the 
Empire  looking,  to  Oldmeadow's  eye,  rather  pitiful 
and  doomed  to  disappointment,  and  a  hurrying,  ab 
sorbed  little  Jap  had  an  almost  empty  Broad  as  a 
setting  for  his  alien  figure. 

Palgrave's  name  was  freshly  painted  at  the 
bottom  of  a  staircase  in  the  Garden  Quad  and  Old- 
meadow  mounted  to  rooms  that  most  delightfully 
overlooked  the  garden  and  its  catalpa-tree. 

Palgrave  was  ready  for  him.  The  tea  was  laid  and 
he  stood  at  the  table  cutting  a  cake  as  Oldmeadow 
entered.  But  some  one  else,  too,  was  ready,  for 
there,  in  the  window-seat,  her  gaze  fixed  on  the  wan 
ing  golds  and  russets  beneath,  sat  Adrienne  Toner. 
Oldmeadow,  very  much  and  very  disagreeably  af 
fected,  paused  at  the  door. 


222 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Oldmeadow, "  said  Adrienne,  and 
there  was  a  strange,  jaded  eagerness  in  the  gaze 
she  fixed  on  him.  "I've  only  come  for  tea.  I  have 
to  go  directly  afterwards.  I  am  staying  in  Oxford, 
now,  you  know.  To  be  near  Palgrave." 

"Meg's  turned  her  out  of  Coldbrooks,"  Palgrave 
announced,  standing  still,  over  the  tea-tray,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  while,  with  bent  head,  he 
looked  from  under  his  brows  at  Oldmeadow.  "  Meg, 
you  understand ;  for  whose  sake  she's  gone  through 
everything.  We're  pariahs  together,  now;  she  and  I." 

"  It's  not  quite  true  or  fair  to  say  that,  Palgrave," 
said  Adrienne,  whose  eyes  had  returned  to  the  gar 
den.  "Meg  hasn't  turned  me  out.  I  felt  it  would  be 
happier  for  her  if  I  weren't  there;  and  for  your 
Mother  —  since  they  feel  as  they  do  about  what  has 
happened;  and  happier  for  you  and  me  to  be  to 
gether.  You  can't  be  surprised  at  Meg.  She  is 
nearly  beside  herself  with  grief." 

Adrienne  was  very  much  altered.  The  magic  of 
the  lime-tree  scene  no  longer  lay  about  her.  Her 
skin  was  sallow,  her  eyes  sunken,  her  projecting 
mouth  was  at  once  stubborn,  weary  and  relaxed. 
She  had  been  almost  beautiful  on  that  July  day  and 
to-day  she  was  definitely  ugly.  Oldmeadow  saw 
that  some  intent  inner  preoccupation  held  her 
thoughts. 

"I  am  surprised  at  her;  very  much  surprised," 
said  Palgrave,  "though  I  might  have  warned  you 
that  Meg  wasn't  a  person  worth  risking  a  great  deal 
for.  Oh,  yes,  she's  nearly  beside  herself  all  right. 
She's  lost  the  man  she  cared  for  and  she  can't,  now, 
ever  be  made  'respectable.'  Oh,  I  see  further  into 
Meg's  grief  than  you  do,  my  poor  Adrienne.  She's 


ADRIENNE  TONER  223 

just  as  conventional  and  unheroic  at  heart  as 
Mother;  and  that's  what  she  minds  —  more  than 
anything." 

Old  meadow,  sunken  in  the  deep  chair  Palgrave 
had  drawn  for  him  to  the  table,  watched  the  curious 
interchange,  and  after  a  pause,  in  her  jaded  voice, 
Adrienne  from  the  window-seat  commented:  "I 
understand  her  rage  and  misery.  It's  because  her 
grief  is  divided  and  spoiled  and  tainted  like  that 
that  she  is  distracted." 

"Will  you  pour  out  tea?"  Palgrave  asked  her 
gloomily.  "You'll  see  anyone's  side,  always,  except 
your  own." 

To  this  Adrienne,  rising  and  coming  forward  to 
the  table,  made  no  reply.  She  wore  a  dark  dress  that 
recalled  to  Old  meadow  the  one  in  which  he  had  first 
seen  her;  the  short  jacket  tying  across  white  in  front 
and  white  ruffles  falling  about  her  neck  and  hands. 
A  small,  dark  hat  was  bent  down  about  her  face. 

Strange,  brooding  face.  What  was  she  thinking 
of,  Old  meadow  wondered,  as  he  watched  her  hands, 
impeded  by  the  falling  ruffles,  moving  with  the  old, 
fumbling  gestures  among  the  tea-things;  she  had 
constantly  to  throw  back  the  ruffles,  and  the  tea-pot, 
after  all,  was  too  heavy  for  her.  It  slipped  on  one 
side  as  she  lifted  it  and  the  hot  tea  poured  over  her 
hand.  She  kept  her  hold  bravely  and  Old  meadow 
rescued  her. 

"How  stupid  I  am!"  she  said,  biting  her  lip. 

"You've  scalded  your  hand,"  said  Palgrave,  eye 
ing  her  with  his  air  no  longer  of  rapturous  but  of 
gloomy  devotion. 

They  made  Oldmeadow  think  of  comrade  polit 
ical  prisoners  moving  off  together  in  a  convoy  to 


224  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Siberia.  There  was  something  as  bleak,  as  heavy,  as 
uninspired  in  their  aspect.  He  could  not  think  that 
Palgrave  could  now  catch  much  light  or  flame  from 
such  a  companion.  They  would  trudge  through  the 
snow;  condemned,  but  together;  to  be  together  was 
the  best  thing,  now,  that  life  offered  them. 

She  said  that  the  scald  was  nothing  and  asked  to 
be  trusted  to  go  on  with  the  tea,  grasping  the  handle 
with  resolution.  Old  meadow,  however,  standing 
beside  her,  insisted  on  filling  the  cups  for  her. 

"You  can  be  allowed  to  put  in  the  milk  and 
sugar,  you  see,"  he  said.  He  was  aware,  as  he  thus 
succoured  and  rallied  her,  of  an  influx  of  feeling  like 
the  feeling  that  came  with  the  uncanny  dreams. 
Here  she  was,  and  reality  had  caught  her.  She  de 
served  to  be  caught,  of  course;  tragic,  meddling 
Pierrot.  But  his  heart  was  heavy  and  gentle ;  as  in 
his  dreams. 

They  sat  round  the  table  together.  On  the  mantel 
piece  was  a  large,  framed  photograph  of  Adrienne; 
on  the  walls  photographs  of  a  Botticelli  Madonna,  a 
Mantegna  from  Padua  and  the  da  Vinci  drawing  for 
the  Christ  of  the  Last  Supper.  Seeing  Oldmeadow's 
eyes  on  them  Palgrave  said:  "Adrienne  gave  me 
those.  And  lots  of  the  books." 

"And  don't  forget  the  beautiful  cushions,  Pal 
grave,"  said  Adrienne,  with  a  flicker  of  her  old,  con 
tented  playfulness.  "I'm  sure  good  cushions  are  the 
foundation  of  a  successful  study  of  philosophy." 

The  cushions  were  certainly  very  good ;  and  very 
beautiful,  as  Oldmeadow  commented.  "That  gor 
geous  chair,  too,"  said  Palgrave.  "  It  ought  to  make 
a  Plato  of  me." 

It  was  curious,  the  sense  they  gave  him  of  trusting 


ADRIENNE  TONER  225 

him.  Were  they  aware,  if  only  sub-consciously,  that 
he  was  feeling  Adrienne,  her  follies  and  misdeeds 
thick  upon  her,  ill-used?  Or  was  it  only  that  they 
had  come  down  to  such  fundamental  securities  as 
were  left  to  them  and  felt  that  with  him,  at  all 
events,  they  were  in  the  hands  of  an  impartial 
judge? 

"  It's  a  happy  life  Meg  and  Mother  lead  at  Cold- 
brooks,  as  you  may  imagine,"  Palgrave  took  up  the 
theme  that  preoccupied  him.  "They  only  see  Nancy 
and  Aunt  Monica,  of  course.  Barbara  is  at  school 
and  Barney,  as  you  are  probably  aware,  never  comes 
near  his  disgraced  sister.  Would  you  believe  it, 
Roger,"  Palgrave  went  on,  while  Oldmeadow  saw 
that  a  dull  colour  crept  up  to  Adrienne's  face  and 
neck  as  her  husband  was  thus  mentioned,  "Meg 
blames  Adrienne  now  for  the  whole  affair!  About 
Eric  and  herself!  Actually!  On  the  one  hand  Eric 
is  her  hero  for  whom  she'll  mourn  for  ever  and  on  the 
other  Adrienne  is  responsible  for  the  fact  that  she's 
not  'respectable'  and  can't  claim  to  be  his  widow. 
Oh,  don't  ask  me  how  she  contrives  to  work  it  out! 
Women  like  Meg  don't  need  logic  when  they've  a 
thong  in  their  hands  and  want  to  use  it.  And 
Adrienne's  shoulders  are  bared  for  the  lash!  God! 
It  makes  me  fairly  mad  to  think  of  it!" 

"Please,  Palgrave!"  Adrienne  supplicated  in  a 
low  voice.  She  did  not  eat.  She  had  drunk  her  tea 
and  sat  looking  down  at  her  plate.  "Don't  think  of 
it  any  more.  Meg  is  very,  very,  unhappy.  We  can 
hardly  imagine  what  the  misery  and  confusion  of 
Meg's  heart  must  be." 

"Oh,  you'll  make  excuses  for  anyone,  Adrienne! 
You're  not  a  shining  example  of  happiness  either,  if 


226  ADRIENNE  TONER 

it  comes  to  that.  It's  atrocious  of  Meg  to  treat  you 
as  she  does.  Atrocious  of  her  to  hold  you  respon 
sible." 

"But  I  am  responsible,"  said  Adrienne,  while  the 
dull  flush  still  dyed  her  face.  "I've  always  said  that 
I  was  responsible.  It  was  I  who  persuaded  them  to 
go." 

"Yes.  To  go.  Instead  of  staying  and  being  lovers 
secretly.  I  know  all  about  it.  And  no  doubt  Meg 
would  rather  it  had  been  so  now.  And  so  would 
Mother!"  Palgrave  ground  his  teeth  on  a  laugh. 
"That's  where  morality  lands  them!  Pretty,  isn't 
it!" 

A  silence  fell  and  then  Adrienne  rose  and  said  that 
Mr.  Jackson  would  be  waiting  for  her.  "He's  com 
ing  at  half-past  five,"  she  said,  and,  with  his  gloomy 
tenderness,  Palgrave  informed  Old  meadow  that  she 
was  reading  logic  and  Plato;  "to  keep  up  with  me, 
you  know." 

Adrienne,  smiling  faintly,  laid  her  hand  for  a 
moment  on  his  shoulder  as  she  went  past  his  chair. 
"Come  in  to-night,  after  dinner,  and  tell  me  what 
you  decide,"  she  said. 

"I'll  have  no  news  for  you,"  Palgrave  replied. 

Old  meadow  had  gone  to  hold  the  door  open  for 
her  and,  as  she  paused  there  to  give  him  her  hand, 
he  heard  her  murmur:  "Will  you  come  down  with 
me?" 

"Let  me  see  you  to  the  bottom  of  the  stair,"  he 
seized  the  intimation,  and,  as  she  went  before  him, 
she  said,  still  in  the  low,  purposeful  voice,  and  he 
felt  sure  now  that  this  had  been  her  intention  in 
coming  to  tea:  "It's  only  so  that  you  shan't  think 
I'll  oppose  you.  If  you  can  persuade  him,  I  shall  not 


ADRIENNE  TONER  227 

oppose  it.  I  think  he's  right.  But  it's  too  hard.  I 
mean,  I  hope  you  can  persuade  him  that  it's  right 
to  go." 

She  had  stepped  out  on  to  the  threshold  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  and  he  paused  behind  her,  aston 
ished.  "You  want  me  to  persuade  him  of  what  you 
think  wrong?" 

She  stood  still  looking  out  at  the  sunny  quad 
rangle.  "  People  must  think  for  themselves.  I  don't 
know  who  is  right  or  who  is  wrong.  Perhaps  I've 
influenced  Palgrave.  Perhaps  he  wouldn't  have  felt 
like  this  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me.  I  don't  know. 
But  if  you  can  make  him  feel  it  right  to  go,  I  shall  be 
glad."  She  stepped  out  into  the  quadrangle. 

"You  mean,"  said  Oldmeadow,  following  her,  and 
strangely  moved,  "that  you'd  rather  have  him  killed 
than  stay  behind  like  this?" 

"  It  would  be  much  happier  for  him,  wouldn't  it," 
she  said.  "  If  he  could  feel  it  right  to  go." 

They  were  under  the  arch  of  the  Library,  she  still 
going  slowly,  before  him,  and  Oldmeadow  stopped 
her  there.  "Mrs.  Barney,  forgive  me  —  may  I  ask 
you  something?  "  He  had  put  his  hand  on  her  shoul 
der  and  she  paused  and  faced  him.  "  It's  something 
personal,  and  I've  no  right  to  be  personal  with  you, 
as  I  know.  But  —  have  you  been  to  see  Barney  at 
Tid  worth?" 

As  Oldmeadow  spoke  these  words,  Adrienne 
turned  away  vehemently,  and  then  stood  still,  as 
though  arrested  in  her  impulse  of  flight  by  an  irre 
sistible  desire  to  listen.  "Barney  does  not  want  to 
see  me,"  she  said,  speaking  with  difficulty. 

"You  think  so,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "And  he  may 
think  so.  But  you  ought  to  see  each  other  at  a  time 


228  ADRIENNE  TONER 

like  this.  He  may  be  ordered  to  France  at  any 
time  now."  He  could  not  see  her  face. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  keep 
ing  the  rigidity  of  her  listening  poise,  "  that  he  won't 
come  to  say  good-bye?" 

"I  know  nothing  at  all."  said  Oldmeadow.  "I 
can  only  infer  how  far  the  mischief  between  you  has 
gone.  And  I'm  most  frightfully  sorry  for  it.  I've 
been  sorry  for  Barney;  but  now  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
too.  I  think  you're  being  unfairly  treated.  But 
yours  have  been  the  mistakes,  Mrs.  Barney,  and  it's 
for  you  to  take  the  first  step." 

''Barney  doesn't  want  to  see  me,"  she  repeated, 
and  she  went  on,  while  he  heard,  growing  in  her 
voice,  the  note  of  the  old  conviction:  "He  has  made 
mistakes,  too.  He  has  treated  me  unfairly,  too.  I 
can't  take  the  first  step." 

"Don't  you  love  him,  then?"  said  Oldmeadow, 
and  in  his  voice  was  the  note  of  the  old  harshness. 

"Does  he  love  me?"  she  retorted,  turning  now, 
with  sudden  fire,  and  fixing  her  eyes  upon  him. 
"Why  should  he  think  I  want  to  see  him  if  he 
doesn't  want  to  see  me?  Why  should  I  love,  if  he 
doesn't?  Why  should  I  sue  to  Barney?" 

"Oh,"  Oldmeadow  almost  groaned.  "Don't  take 
that  line;  don't,  I  beg  of  you.  You're  both  young. 
And  you've  hurt  him  so.  You've  meant  to  hurt  him ; 
I've  seen  it!  I've  seen  it,  Mrs.  Barney.  If  you'll 
put  by  your  pride  everything  can  grow  again." 

"No!  no!  no!"  she  cried  almost  violently,  and  he 
saw  that  she  was  trembling.  "Some  things  don't 
grow  again!  It's  not  like  plants,  Mr.  Oldmeadow. 
Some  things  are  like  living  creatures;  and  they  can 
die.  They  can  die,"  she  repeated,  now  walking  rap- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  229 

idly  away  from  him  out  into  the  large  quadrangle 
with  its  grass  plot  cut  across  by  the  late  sunshine. 
He  followed  her  for  a  moment  and  he  heard  her  say, 
as  she  went:  "  It's  worse,  far  worse,  not  to  mean  to 
hurt.  It's  worse  to  care  so  little  that  you  don't  know 
when  you  are  hurting." 

" No,  it's  not,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "That's  only 
being  stupid;  not  cruel." 

"  It's  not  thinking  that  is  cruel ;  it's  not  caring  that 
is  cruel,"  she  repeated,  passionately,  half  muttering 
the  words,  and  whether  with  tears  of  fury  he  could 
not  say. 

He  stood  still  at  the  doorway.  "Good-bye,  then," 
he  said.  And  not  looking  behind  her,  as  she  went 
out  swiftly  into  New  College  Lane,  she  answered, 
still  on  the  same  note  of  passionate  protest:  "Good 
bye,  Mr.  Oldmeadow.  Good-bye."  He  watched  her 
small,  dark  figure  hurry  along  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wall  until  the  turning  hid  it  from  view. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

PALGRAVE,  apparently,  had  formed  no  conjectures 
as  to  their  conversation  and  was  thinking  still  of 
Adrienne's  wrongs  rather  than  of  his  own  situation. 
"Did  you  take  her  home?"  he  said.  "I  see  you're 
sorry  for  her,  Roger.  It's  really  too  abominable,  you 
know.  I  really  can't  say  before  her  what  I  think,  I 
really  can't  say  before  you  what  I  think  of  Barney's 
treatment  of  her;  because  1  know  you  agree  with 
him." 

Oldmeadow  felt  all  the  more  able,  shaken  though 
he  was  by  the  interview  below,  to  remember,  be 
cause  of  it,  what  he  thought.  "If  you  mean  that  I 
don't  consider  Barney  in  the  very  least  responsible 
for  the  death  of  the  baby,  I  do  agree  with  him,"  he 
said. 

"Apart  from  that,  apart  from  the  baby,"  said 
Palgrave,  controlling  his  temper,  it  was  evident,  in 
his  wish  to  keep  the  ear  of  the  impartial  judge, 
"though  what  the  loss  of  a  child  means  to  a  woman 
like  Adrienne  I  don't  believe  you  can  guess;  apart 
from  whose  was  the  responsibility,  he  ought  to  have 
seen,  towards  the  end,  at  all  events,  if  he'd  eyes  in 
his  head  and  a  heart  in  his  breast,  that  all  she  asked 
was  to  forgive  him  and  take  him  back.  She  was 
proud,  of  course.  What  woman  of  her  power  and 
significance  wouldn't  have  been?  She  couldn't  be 
the  first  to  move.  But  Barney  must  have  seen  that 
her  heart  was  breaking." 

"Well,"  said  Oldmeadow,  taking  in,  with  some 
perplexity,  this  new  presentation  of  Adrienne 


ADRIENNE  TONER  231 

Toner;  "what  about  his  heart?  She'd  led  it  a  pretty 
dance.  And  you  forget  that  I  don't  consider  she  had 
anything  to  forgive  him." 

"His  heart!"  Palgrave  echoed  scornfully,  yet 
with  a  sorrowful  scorn;  "He  mended  his  heart  quick 
enough.  Went  and  fell  in  love  with  Nancy,  who 
only  asks  to  be  let  alone." 

"He's  always  loved  Nancy.  She's  always  been 
like  a  sister  to  him.  Adrienne  has  infected  you  with 
her  groundless  jealousy." 

"Groundless  indeed!"  Palgrave  reached  for  his 
pipe  and  began  to  stuff  it  vindictively.  "Nancy  sees 
well  enough,  poor  dear !  She's  had  to  keep  him  off  by 
any  device  she  could  contrive.  She's  a  good  deal 
more  than  a  sister  to  him,  now.  She's  the  only 
person  in  the  world  for  him.  You  can  call  it  jeal 
ousy  if  you  like.  That's  only  another  name  for  a 
broken  heart." 

"I  don't  know  what  Barney's  feeling  may  be, 
Palgrave,  but  I  do  know,  it  was  quite  plain  to  me, 
that  Adrienne  was  jealous  long  before  she  had  any 
ground  for  jealousy.  If  Nancy's  all  Barney's  got 
left  now,  it's  simply  because  Adrienne  has  taken 
everything  else  from  him.  You  don't  seem  to  realize 
that  Adrienne  drove  him  from  her  with  her  airs  of 
martyrdom.  Took  vengeance  on  him,  too;  what 
else  was  the  plan  for  Barbara  going  abroad  with 
you?  I  don't  want  to  speak  unkindly  of  her.  It's 
quite  true;  I'm  sorry  for  her.  I've  never  liked  her 
so  well.  But  the  reason  is  that  she's  beginning,  I 
really  believe,  to  find  out  that  her  own  feet  are  of 
clay,  while  her  mistake  all  along  has  been  to  imagine 
herself  above  ordinary  humanity.  All  our  feet  are  of 
clay,  and  we  never  get  very  far  unless  we  are  aware 


232  ADRIENNE  TONER 

of  the  weakness  in  our  structure  and  look  out  for  a 
continual  tendency  to  crumble.  You  don't  get  over 
it  by  pretending  you  don't  need  to  walk  and  imagin 
ing  you  have  wings  instead  of  feet." 

Palgrave,  drawing  stiffly  at  his  pipe  during  this 
little  homily,  listened,  gloomily  yet  without  resent 
ment.  "You  see,  where  you  make  your  mistake  — 
if  you'll  allow  the  youthful  ass  you  consider  me  to 
say  so  —  is  that  you've  always  imagined  Adrienne 
to  be  a  self-righteous  prig  who  sets  herself  up  above 
others.  She  doesn't;  she  doesn't,"  Palgrave  re 
peated  with  conviction.  "She'd  accept  the  feet  of 
clay  if  you'll  grant  her  the  heart  of  flame  —  for 
everybody ;  the  wings  —  for  everybody.  There's 
your  mistake,  Roger.  Adrienne  believes  that  every 
body  has  wings  as  well  as  herself ;  and  the  only  differ 
ence  she  sees  in  people  is  that  some  have  learned  and 
some  haven't  how  to  use  them.  She  may  be  mortal 
woman  —  bless  her  —  and  have  made  mistakes ; 
but  they're  the  mistakes  of  flame ;  not  of  earthiness." 

"You  are  not  an  ass,  Palgrave,"  said  Oldmeadow, 
after  a  moment.  "You  are  wise  in  everything  but 
experience;  and  you  see  deep.  Suppose  we  come  to 
a  compromise.  You've  owned  that  Adrienne  may 
make  mistakes  and  I  own  that  I  may  misjudge  her. 
I  see  what  you  believe  about  her  and  I  see  why  you 
believe  it.  I've  seen  her  at  her  worst,  no  doubt,  and 
to  you  she's  been  able  to  show  only  her  best.  So 
let  it  rest  at  that.  What  I  came  to  talk  about,  you 
know,  was  you." 

"I  know,"  said  Palgrave,  and  he  gave  a  deep 
sigh. 

"  Be  patient  with  me,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "  After 
all,  we  belong  to  the  same  generation.  You  can't 


ADRIENNE  TONER  233 

pretend  that  I'm  an  old  fogey  who's  lost  the  inspi 
rations  of  his  youth  and  has  marched  so  far  down 
towards  the  grave  that  the  new  torches  coming  up 
over  the  horizon  are  hidden  from  him." 

"That's  rather  nice,  you  know,  Roger,"  Palgrave 
smiled  faintly.  "No;  you're  not  an  old  fogey. 
But  all  the  same  there's  not  much  torch  about  you." 

"It's  rather  sad,  isn't  it,"  Oldmeadow  mused, 
"that  we  should  always  seem  to  begin  with  torches 
and  then  to  spend  the  rest  of  our  lives  in  quenching 
them.  It  may  be,  you  know,  that  we're  only  trying 
to  hold  them  straight,  so  that  the  wind  shan't  blow 
them  out.  However!  —  you'll  let  me  talk.  That's 
the  point." 

"Of  course  you  may.  You've  been  awfully  de 
cent,"  Palgrave  murmured. 

"Well,  then,  it  seems  to  me  you're  not  seeing 
straight,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "It's  not  crude  animal 
patriotism  —  as  you'd  put  it  —  that's  asked  of  you. 
It's  a  very  delicate  discrimination  between  ideals." 

"I  know!  I  know!"  said  Palgrave.  The  traces 
of  mental  anguish  were  on  his  worn  young  face.  He 
knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  rose  to  lean 
against  the  mantelpiece.  "  I  don't  suppose  I  can  ex 
plain,"  he  said,  staring  out  at  the  sky.  "I  suppose 
that  with  me  the  crude  animal  thing  is  the  personal 
inhibition.  I  can't  do  it.  I'd  rather,  far,  be  killed 
than  have  to  kill  other  men.  That's  the  unreason 
ing  part,  the  instinctive  part,  but  it's  a  part  of  one's 
nature  that  I  don't  believe  one  can  violate  without 
violating  one's  very  spirit.  I've  always  been  differ 
ent,  I  know,  from  most  fellows  of  my  age  and  class. 
I've  always  hated  sport  —  shooting  and  hunting. 
The  fox,  the  stag,  the  partridge,  have  always  spoiled 


234  ADRIENNE  TONER 

it  for  me.  Oh,  I  know  they  have  to  be  killed  —  poor 
brutes!  I  know  that;  but  I  can't  myself  be  the 
butcher." 

"You'll  own,  though,  that  there  must  be  butch 
ers,"  said  Oldmeadow,  after  a  little  meditation.  He 
felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  something  delicate, 
distorted  and  beautiful.  "And  you'll  own,  won't 
you,  when  it  comes  to  a  war  like  this,  when  not  only 
our  national  honour  but  our  national  existence  is  at 
stake,  that  some  men  must  kill  others.  Isn't  it  then, 
baldly,  that  you  profit,  personally,  by  other  people 
doing  what  you  won't  do?  You'll  eat  spring  lamb  as 
long  as  there  are  butchers  to  kill  the  lamb  for  you, 
and  you'll  be  an  Englishman  and  take  from  England 
all  that  she  has  to  give  you  —  including  Oxford  and 
Coldbrooks  —  and  let  other  men  do  the  nasty  work 
that  makes  the  survival  of  England  and  Oxford  and 
Coldbrooks  possible.  That's  what  it  comes  to,  you 
know.  That's  all  I  ask  you  to  look  at  squarely." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Palgrave  repeated.  He  had 
looked  at  little  else,  poor  boy.  Oldmeadow  saw 
that.  "But  that's  where  the  delicate  discrimina 
tion  between  ideals  comes  in,  Roger.  That's  where 
I  have  to  leave  intuition,  which  says  'No,'  and  turn 
to  reason.  And  the  trouble  is  that  for  me  reason 
says  'No,'  too.  Because  humanity  —  all  of  it  that 
counts  —  has  outgrown  war.  That's  what  it  comes 
to.  It's  a  conflict  between  a  national  and  an  human 
itarian  ideal.  There  are  enough  of  us  in  the  world  to 
stop  war,  if  we  all  act  together;  and  why,  because 
others  don't,  should  I  not  do  what  I  feel  right? 
Others  may  follow  if  only  a  few  of  us  stand  out.  If 
no  one  stands  out,  no  one  will  ever  follow.  And  you 
can't  kill  England  like  that.  England  is  more  than 


ADRIENNE  TONER  235 

men  and  institutions,"  Palgrave  still  gazed  at  the 
sky.  "It's  an  idea  that  will  survive;  perhaps  the 
more  truly  in  the  spirit  for  perishing  in  the  flesh,  if 
it  really  came  to  that.  Look  at  Greece.  She's  dead, 
if  you  like;  yet  what  existing  nation  lives  as  truly? 
It  is  Grecian  minds  we  think  with  and  Grecian  eyes 
we  see  with.  It's  Plato's  conception  of  the  just  man 
being  the  truly  happy  man  —  even  if  the  whole 
world's  against  him  —  that  is  the  very  meaning  of 
our  refusal  to  go  with  the  world." 

"You'll  never  stop  war  by  refusal  so  long  as  the 
majority  of  men  still  believe  in  it,"  said  Oldmeadow. 
"There  are  not  enough  of  you  to  stop  it  now.  The 
time  to  stop  it  is  before  it  comes;  not  while  it's  on. 
It's  before  it  begins  that  you  must  bring  the  rest  of 
humanity  not  to  behave  in  ways  that  make  it  in 
evitable.  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  ideas  can  per 
ish,"  he  went  on,  as  Palgrave,  to  this,  made  no  reply, 
"as  far  as  their  earthly  manifestation  goes,  that  is, 
if  enough  men  and  institutions  are  destroyed.  If 
Germany  could  conquer  and  administer  England, 
I'm  inclined  to  think  the  English  idea  would  perish. 
And  war  need  not  be  unspiritual.  Killing  our  fellow- 
men  need  not  mean  hating  them.  There's  less  hatred 
in  war,  I  imagine,  than  in  some  of  the  contests  of 
peaceful  civilian  life.  Put  it  fairly  on  the  ground  of 
humanitarianism,  then,  Palgrave ;  not  of  nationality. 
It's  the  whole  world  that  is  threatened  by  a  hateful 
idea,  by  the  triumph  of  all  you  most  fear  and  detest, 
and  unless  we  strive  against  it  with  all  we  are  and 
have  it  seems  to  me  that  we  fall  short  of  our  duty  not 
only  as  Englishmen,  but  as  humanitarians.  Put  it 
at  that,  Palgrave;  would  you  really  have  had  Eng 
land  stand  by  and  not  lift  a  finger  when  Belgium 
was  invaded  and  France  menaced?" 


236  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Palgrave  was  not  ready  with  his  reply  and  he 
turned  away  while  he  looked  for  it  and  shuffled  the 
papers  on  his  desk  with  a  nervous  hand.  "Yes,  I 
would,"  he  said  at  last.  "Hateful  as  it  is  to  have  to 
say  it  —  I  would  have  stood  by."  He  came  back  to 
his  place  at  the  mantelpiece  and  looked  down  at 
Oldmeadow  as  he  spoke.  "The  choice,  of  course,  is 
hateful;  but  I  think  we  should  have  stood  by  and 
helped  the  sufferers  and  let  France  and  Germany 
fight  it  out.  It  always  comes  back  to  them,  doesn't 
it?  They're  always  fighting  it  out;  they  always  will, 
till  they  find  it's  no  good  and  that  they  can't  anni 
hilate  each  other;  which  is  what  they  both  want  to 
do.  Oh,  I've  read  too  many  of  the  young  French 
neo-Catholics  to  be  able  to  believe  that  the  hateful 
idea  was  all  on  one  side.  Their  ideals  don't  differ 
much,  once  you  strip  them  of  their  theological 
tinsel,  from  those  of  the  Germans.  Germany  hap 
pens  to  be  the  aggressor  now;  but  if  the  militarist 
party  in  France  had  had  the  chance,  they'd  have 
struck  as  quickly." 

"The  difference  —  and  it's  an  immense  one  —  is 
that  the  militarist  party  in  France  wouldn't  have 
had  the  chance.  The  difference  is  that  it  doesn't 
govern  and  mould  public  opinion.  It's  not  a  menace 
to  the  world.  It's  only  a  sort  of  splendid  pet,  kept 
in  a  Zoo,  for  the  delectation  of  a  certain  class  and 
party.  Whereas  Germany's  the  bona  fide  hungry 
tigress  at  large.  What  you  really  ask  of  England, 
Palgrave,  is  that  she  should  be  a  Buddha  and  lie 
down  and  let  the  tigress,  after  finishing  France,  de 
vour  her,  too.  It  really  comes  to  that.  Buddhism  is 
the  only  logical  basis  for  your  position,  and  I  don't 
believe,  however  sorry  one  may  be  for  hungry 


ADRIENNE  TONER  237 

tigresses,  that  the  right  way  to  deal  with  them  is  to 
let  them  eat  you.  The  Christian  philosophy  of  the 
incarnation  is  the  true  one.  Matter  does  make  a 
spiritual  difference.  It  does  make  a  difference,  a 
real  difference,  that  the  ideal  should  be  made  flesh. 
It's  important  to  the  world,  spiritually,  that  the 
man  rather  than  the  tigress  should  survive." 

"Christ  gave  his  life,"  said  Palgrave,  after  a  mo 
ment. 

"I'm  not  speaking  of  historical  personages;  but 
of  eternal  truths,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

But  he  knew  already  that  he  spoke  in  vain.  Pal- 
grave  had  turned  away  his  eyes  again  and  on  his  sad 
young  face  he  read  the  fixity  of  a  fanatic  idealism. 
He  had  not  moved  him,  though  he  had  troubled  him. 
No  one  would  move  Palgrave.  He  doubted,  now, 
whether  Adrienne  herself  had  had  much  influence 
over  him.  It  was  with  the  sense  of  pleading  a  lost 
cause  that  he  said,  presently,  "Adrienne  hopes  you'll 
feel  it  right  to  go." 

Palgrave  at  this  turned  a  profound  gaze  upon 
him.  "I  know  it,"  he  said.  "Though  she's  never 
told  me  so.  It's  the  weakness  of  her  love,  its  yearn 
ing  and  tenderness,  not  its  strength,  that  makes  her 
want  it.  Because  she  knows  it  would  be  so  much 
easier.  But  she  can't  go  back  on  what  she's  meant  to 
me.  It's  because  of  that,  in  part  at  all  events,  that 
I've  been  able  to  see  steadily  what  I  mean  to  my 
self.  That's  what  she  helps  one  to  do,  you  know. 
Hold  to  yourself;  your  true,  deep  self.  It's  owing 
to  her  that  I  can  only  choose  in  one  way  —  even  if 
I  can't  defend  it  properly.  It  seems  to  come  back 
to  metaphysics,  doesn't  it?" 

"  Like  everything  else,"  said  Oldmeadow. 


238  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"Yes.  Like  everything  else.  It  would  take  a 
four-years'  course  in  Greats  to  argue  it  out,  Roger. 
Come  back  to  me  —  if  you're  here  and  I'm  here 
then  —  and  we'll  see  what  we  can  make  of  it." 

"I  will,"  said  Oldmeadow,  rising,  for  the  room 
was  growing  dark.  "And  before  that,  I  hope." 

"After  all,  you  know,"  Palgrave  observed,  "Eng 
land  isn't  in  any  danger  of  becoming  Buddhistic; 
there's  not  much  nihilism  about  her,  is  there,  but 
hardly  much  Christianity,  either.  England  has 
evolved  all  sorts  of  things  besides  Oxford  and  Cold- 
brooks.  She's  evolved  industrialism  and  factory- 
towns." 

"I  don't  consider  industrialism  and  factory- 
towns  incompatible  with  Christianity,  you  know," 
Oldmeadow  observed.  "Good-bye,  my  dear  boy." 

"Good-bye,  Roger,"  Palgrave  grasped  his  hand. 
"You've  been  most  awfully  kind." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"ISN'T  it  becoming  to  him,  Mother?  And  how  tall 
he  looks!"  said  Nancy,  holding  Oldmeadow  off  in  his 
khaki  for  displayal. 

He  had  only  written  a  line  of  his  failure  and  that 
he  would  come  as  soon  as  he  could  and  see  them  all 
and  tell  in  full  of  his  interview  with  Palgrave.  And 
he  had  motored  over  to  The  Little  House  this  after 
noon  in  early  November. 

Nancy  was  showing  an  unexpected  gaiety. 
"What  a  nice  grilled-salmon  colour  you  are,  too," 
she  said. 

He  divined  the  self-protective  instinct  under  the 
gaiety.  Most  of  the  women  in  England  were  being 
gayer  and  more  talkative  at  this  time,  in  order  to 
keep  up.  Nancy  was  thin  and  white;  but  she  was 
keeping  up.  And  she  had  put  on  a  charming  dress  to 
receive  him  in. 

"I've  been  grilled  all  right;  out  on  the  downs," 
he  said.  "But  it's  more  like  cold  storage  just  now, 
with  these  frosts  at  night.  Yes ;  the  big  cup,  please. 
I'm  famished  for  tea.  Ah!  that's  something  like! 
It  smells  like  your  rose  outside.  I  sniffed  it  as  I 
waited  at  the  door.  Wonderful  for  such  a  late 
blooming." 

"Isn't  it,"  said  Mrs.  Averil.  "And  I  only  put  it 
in  last  autumn.  It's  doing  beautifully ;  but  I've  cher 
ished  it.  And  now  tell  us  about  Palgrave." 

He  felt  reluctant  to  tell  about  Palgrave.  The  im 
pression  that  remained  with  him  of  Palgrave  was 
that  impression  of  beauty  and  distortion  and  he  did 


240  ADRIENNE  TONER 

not  want  to  have  to  disentangle  his  feelings  or  to 
seem  to  put  Palgrave  in  the  wrong.  It  was  so  sweet, 
too,  after  the  long,  chilly  drive  over  the  empty  up 
lands,  to  sit  here  and  forget  the  war,  although  it  was 
for  scenes  like  this,  for  girls  like  Nancy,  women  like 
Mrs.  Averil  —  with  so  much  else  —  that  the  war 
was  so  worth  fighting.  He  turned  his  thoughts  back 
to  the  realities  that  underlay  the  happy  appearances 
and  was  aware,  as  he  forced  himself  to  tell,  of  what 
must  seem  a  note  of  advocacy  in  his  voice.  "He 
can't  think  differently,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said.  "It's 
self-sacrifice,  not  selfishness,  that  is  moving  him." 

"He  can't  think  differently  while  Adrienne  is 
living  there,"  said  Mrs.  Averil.  "He  didn't  tell  you, 
I  suppose,  that  she  has  now  taken  up  her  abode  in 
Oxford  in  order  to  study  philosophy  with  him?" 

He  was  rather  uncomfortably  aware  of  the  disin- 
genuousness  that  must  now  be  made  apparent  in  his 
avoidance  of  all  mention  of  Adrienne. 

"I  saw  her,"  he  said,  and  he  knew  that  it  was 
lamely.  "She  was  there  when  I  got  there." 

"You  saw  her!"  Mrs.  Averil  exclaimed.  "But 
then,  of  course  you  didn't  convince  him.  I  might 
have  known  it.  Of  course  she  would  not  let  you  see 
him  alone." 

"But  she  did  let  me  see  him  alone.  That  was 
what  she  wanted.  And  she  was  there  only  in  order 
to  tell  me  what  she  wanted.  She  wants  him  to  go." 

Mrs.  Averil  was  eyeing  him  with  such  astonish 
ment  that  he  turned  to  Nancy  with  his  explana 
tions.  But  Mrs.  Averil  would  not  leave  him  to 
Nancy's  sympathy.  "  It's  rather  late  in  the  day  for 
her  to  want  him  to  go,"  she  said.  "She  may  be  sorry 
for  what  she's  done;  but  it's  her  work." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  241 

"Well,  she's  sorry  for  her  work.  That's  what  it 
comes  to.  And  I'm  sorry  for  her,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

1 '  Good  heavens !  The  cleverness  of  that  woman ! " 
Mrs.  Averil  exclaimed.  "If  she  can't  be  powerful, 
she'll  be  pitiful!  She's  worked  on  your  feelings;  I 
can  see  that,  Roger.  And  I  thought  you,  at  least, 
were  immune.  Well;  she  does  not  work  on  mine.  I 
am  not  in  the  least  sorry  for  her." 

"She's  being  unfairly  treated,"  said  Oldmeadow. 
"It's  grotesque  that  Meg  should  have  turned  upon 
her." 

"And  Eleanor  has,  too,  you  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Averil.  "  It's  grotesque,  if  you  like;  but  I  see  a  grim 
justice  in  it.  She  made  them  do  things  and  believe 
things  that  weren't  natural  to  them  and  now  she's 
lost  her  power  and  they  see  things  as  they  are." 

"It's  because  she's  failed  that  they've  turned 
against  her,"  said  Nancy.  "  If  she'd  succeeded  they 
would  have  gone  on  accepting  what  she  told  them 
and  making  her  their  idol." 

"Adriennes  mustn't  fail,"  said  Mrs.  Averil  dryly. 
"The  only  justification  for  Adriennes  is  to  be  in 
the  right.  If  the  blood  of  Saint  Januarius  doesn't 
liquefy,  why  should  you  keep  it  in  a  shrine?  She's  a 
woman  who  has  quarrelled  with  her  husband  and 
disgraced  her  sister  and  brother-in-law,  and  broken 
her  mother-in-law's  heart.  You  can't  go  on  making 
an  idol  of  a  saint  who  behaves  like  that." 

"She  never  claimed  worldly  success,"  said  Nancy. 
"She  never  told  Meg  to  go  so  that  she  could  get 
married  afterwards;  she  never  told  Palgrave  that 
war  was  wrong  because  it  was  easier  not  to  fight." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  did  claim  worldly  success,  really," 
said  Mrs.  Averil,  while  her  eyes  rested  on  her 


242  ADRIENNE  TONER 

daughter  with  a  tenderness  that  contrasted  with  her 
tone.  "Her  whole  point  was  that  if  you  were  right 
spiritually  -  '  poised '  she  called  it,  you  remember 
—  all  those  other  things  would  be  added  unto  you. 
I've  heard  her  claim  that  if  you  were  poised  you  could 
get  anything  you  really  wanted.  I  asked  her  once 
if  I  should  find  a  ten-pound  note  under  the  sofa- 
cushion  every  morning  after  breakfast  if  I  could  get 
poised  sufficiently!"  Mrs.  Averil  laughed,  still  more 
dryly  while  she  still  maintained  her  tender  gaze  and 
Nancy  said,  smiling  a  little:  "She  might  have  put  it 
there  for  you  if  she'd  been  sure  you  were  poised." 

"Well,  let  us  bury  Adrienne  for  the  present,"  said 
Mrs.  Averil.  "  Tell  Roger  about  your  nursing  plans. 
She  may  go  to  London,  Roger,  this  winter,  and  I'm 
to  be  left  alone." 

"You're  to  be  left  to  take  care  of  Aunt  Eleanor, 
if  I  do  go,"  said  Nancy;  and  Mrs.  Averil  said  that 
there  must  certainly  be  some  one  left  to  take  care  of 
poor  Eleanor. 

Oldmeadow  went  up  to  Coldbrooks  next  morning. 
The  first  person  he  saw  was  old  Johnson  at  the  door 
and  he  remembered  Eleanor  Chadwick's  griefs  on 
his  account.  Nothing,  now,  could  have  been  kept 
from  Johnson  and  his  face  bore  the  marks  of  the 
family  calamities.  He  was  aged  and  whitened  and 
his  voice  had  armed  itself,  since  the  downfall  of  his 
grave,  vicarious  complacency,  with  solemn  cadences. 

"Yes,  sir.  The  ladies  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you, 
sir.  These  are  sad  days  for  them  —  the  family  dis 
persed  as  it  is." 

Johnson  defined  the  situation  as  he  felt  that  it 
could  be  most  fittingly  defined  and  Oldmeadow  in 
wardly  applauded  his  "dispersed." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  243 

The  drawing-room,  into  which  Johnson  ushered 
him,  had,  for  the  first  time  in  his  memory  of  it,  a 
mournful  air.  It  had  always  been  shabby,  and  these 
were  the  same  faded  chintzes,  the  same  worn  rugs; 
but  now,  fireless  and  flowerless,  it  neither  spoke  nor 
smiled  and,  with  the  sense  it  gave  of  an  outlived 
epoch,  it  was  almost  spectral.  The  photographs  all 
looked  like  the  photographs  of  dead  people  and  the 
only  similitude  of  life  was  the  loud,  silly  ticking  of 
the  French  clock  on  the  mantelpiece;  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick's  cherished  clock ;  one  of  her  wedding-presents. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  rather  chilly,  sir,"  said  Johnson. 
"  No  one  has  sat  here  of  an  evening  now  for  a  long 
time."  He  put  a  match  to  the  ranged  logs,  drew  the 
blinds  up  farther  so  that  the  autumnal  sunlight 
might  more  freely  enter,  and  left  him. 

Oldmeadow  went  to  the  window  and  turned  over 
the  magazines,  a  month  old,  that  lay  on  a  table 
there. 

He  was  standing  so  when  Meg  entered,  and  she 
had  half  the  length  of  the  room  to  traverse  before 
they  met.  She  was  in  black,  in  deep  black ;  but  more 
beautiful  than  he  had  ever  seen  her;  her  tossed 
auburn  locks  bound  low  on  her  forehead  with  a  black 
ribbon,  her  white  throat  upright,  her  eyes  hard  with 
their  readiness,  their  resource.  Beautiful  and  dis 
tressing.  It  distressed  him  terribly  to  see  that  hard 
ness  in  her  eyes. 

"How  do  you  do,  Roger,"  she  said,  giving  him 
her  hand.  "It's  good  to  see  you.  Mother  will  be 
glad." 

They  seated  themselves  on  one  of  the  capacious 
sofas  and  she  questioned  him  quickly,  competently, 
while  the  hard  eyes  seemed  to  measure  him  lest  he 


244  ADRIENNE  TONER 

measure  her.  It  was  almost  the  look  of  the  dedassee 
woman  who  forestalls  withdrawal  in  an  interlocutor. 
But,  as  he  answered  her  quietly,  his  fond  regard 
upon  her,  her  defences  began  to  fall.  "  It's  the  only 
life,  a  soldier's,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  "At  all  times, 
really.  But,  at  a  time  like  this,  anything  else  seems 
despicable,  doesn't  it;  contemptibly  smug  and  safe. 
The  uniform  is  so  becoming  to  you.  You  look  a  sol 
dier  already.  One  feels  that  men  will  trust  and  fol 
low  you.  Didn't  you  burn  with  rage  and  shame,  too, 
when,  for  those  four  days,  it  seemed  we  might  not 
come  in?" 

"I  felt  too  sure  we  should  come  in,  to  burn  with 
rage  and  shame,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

"Ah!  but  it  was  not  so  sure,  I'm  afraid,"  said 
Meg,  and  in  her  eyes,  no  longer  hard,  wild  lights 
seemed  to  pass  and  repass.  "I'm  afraid  that  there 
are  nearly  enough  fools  and  knaves  in  England  to 
wreck  us.  Not  quite  enough,  thank  heaven!  But, 
for  those  four  days,  Eric  was  terribly  afraid.  He  was 
killed,  you  know,  Roger,  very  splendidly,  leading 
his  men." 

"  I  know,  Meg.  My  dear  Meg,"  Oldmeadow  mur 
mured. 

"Oh!  I  don't  regret  it!  I  don't  regret  it!"  Meg 
cried,  while  her  colour  rose  and  her  young  breast 
lifted.  "  It's  the  soldier's  death !  The  consecrating, 
heroic  death !  He  was  ready.  And  deaths  like  that 
atone  —  for  the  others.  He  was  not  killed  instanta 
neously,  Roger." 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Oldmeadow,  looking  at  her 
with  a  pitying,  troubled  gaze. 

"He  lived  for  a  day  and  night  afterwards,"  said 
Meg,  looking  back,  tearless.  "They  carried  him  to 


ADRIENNE  TONER  245 

a  barn.  Only  his  man  was  with  him.  There  was  no 
one  to  dress  his  dreadful  wound;  no  food.  The  man 
got  him  some  water,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life.  He 
was  conscious  until  the  end  and  he  suffered  terribly." 

Oldmeadow  dropped  his  eyes  before  her  fierce 
stare  while,  strangely,  dimly,  there  passed  through 
his  mind  the  memory  of  the  embarrassed,  empty, 
handsome  young  face  in  the  brougham  and,  again, 
the  memory  of  his  dog  John.  He  had  seen  John  die 
and  his  eyes  of  wistful  appeal.  So  Eric  Hay  ward's 
eyes  might  have  looked  as  he  lay  in  the  barn  dying. 

"Oh,  Roger!"  Meg  said  suddenly,  seizing  his 
hand.  "Kill  them!  Kill  them!  Oh,  revenge  him! 
I  was  not  with  him!  Think  of  it!  I  would  have  had 
no  right  to  have  been  with  him  —  had  it  been  pos 
sible.  I  did  not  know  till  a  week  later.  He  was 
buried  there.  His  man  buried  him." 

"  My  poor,  poor  child,"  said  Oldmeadow,  clasping 
her  hands. 

But,  at  once,  taking  refuge  from  his  pity  and 
from  her  own  desperate  pain:  "So  you've  seen  Pal- 
grave,"  she  said.  "And  he  isn't  going.  I  knew  it 
was  useless.  I  told  Mother  it  was  useless  —  with 
that  stranger  —  that  American,  with  him.  She  has 
disgraced  us  all.  —  Wretched  boy!  Hateful  wo 
man!" 

"Meg,  Meg;  be  soldierly.  He  wouldn't  have 
spoken  like  that." 

"He  never  liked  her!  Never!"  she  cried.  "I 
knew  he  didn't,  even  at  the  time  she  was  flattering 
and  cajoling  us.  I  saw  that  she  bewildered  him  and 
that  he  accepted  her  only  because  she  was  mine. 
How  I  loathe  myself  for  having  listened  to  her! 
How  I  loathe  her!  All  that  she  ever  wanted  was 


246  ADRIENNE  TONER 

power!  Power  over  other  people's  lives!  She'd  com 
mit  any  crime  for  that!" 

"You  seem  to  me  cruelly  unfair,"  he  said. 

"No!  no!  I'm  not  unfair!  You  know  I'm  not!" 
she  cried.  "You  always  saw  the  truth  about  her  — 
from  the  very  beginning.  You  never  fell  down  and 
worshipped  her,  like  the  rest  of  us.  And  she  knew 
that  you  were  her  enemy  and  warned  us  against  you. 
Oh  —  why  did  Barney  marry  her ! ' ' 

"  I  never  worshipped  her;  but  I  never  thought  her 
base  and  hateful." 

"You  never  knew  her  as  I  did;  that  was  all. 
And  I  never  knew  her  until  I  came  back  and  found 
her  doing  to  Palgrave  what  she  had  done  to  us. 
Paladin!  Did  you  hear  her  call  him  Paladin?  Al 
ways  flattery!  Always  to  make  one  think  one  was 
wonderful,  important,  mysterious!  She  forced  us 
to  go  away,  Roger.  Sometimes  I  think  it  was  hyp 
notism;  that  she  uses  her  will-power  consciously. 
We  did  not  want  to  go.  We  did  not  want  the  di 
vorce  and  the  scandal." 

"What  did  you  want,  then,  Meg?" 

She  felt  the  gravity  of  his  tone  but,  like  a  fierce 
Maenad,  she  snatched  at  the  torch,  not  caring  how 
it  revealed  her.  "What  of  it!  What  if  we  had  been 
secret  lovers!  Who  would  have  known!  Who  would 
have  been  harmed!  Some  people  go  on  for  years 
and  years.  His  wife  loved  another  man.  He  had  no 
one.  Why  should  we  have  been  pushed  —  such 
pitiful  fools  we  were  —  into  displaying  our  love  to 
the  world  and  being  crushed  by  it!  Oh,  he  was  so 
loyal,  so  brave;  but  it  made  him  very,  very  un 
happy.  Oh,  I  was  cruel  to  him  sometimes!  I  used 
to  reproach  him  sometimes !  Oh,  Roger!  Roger! — " 


ADRIENNE  TONER  247 

She  broke  into  wild  tears  and  stumbled  to  her 
feet. 

As  she  reached  the  door,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  her  mother  opened  it  and,  meeting  her 
on  the  threshold,  Meg,  with  almost  the  effect  of 
beating  her  aside  with  the  other  impediments  to 
her  rage  and  grief,  pushed  past  her  so  that  the  knit 
ting  Mrs.  Chadwick  held  was  flung  to  the  floor,  the 
ball  of  khaki  wool  running  rapidly  away  under  a 
sofa  and  the  socks  and  needles  dangling  at  her  feet. 

She  stood  looking  down  at  them  with  a  curious 
apathy  and,  as  Old  meadow  went  to  help  and  greet 
her,  he  saw  that  as  much  as  Meg  was  wild  she  was 
dulled  and  quiet. 

"Meg  is  so  very,  very  violent,"  she  said,  as  he 
disentangled  the  wool  and  restored  her  sock  and 
ball  to  her.  She  spoke  with  listlessness  rather  than 
sympathy. 

" Poor  child,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "One  can  hardly 
wonder  at  it.  But  it  makes  a  wretched  existence 
for  you,  I'm  afraid.  You  and  she  oughtn't  to  be 
alone  together." 

He  drew  her  to  a  chair  and,  seating  herself,  her 
faded  face  and  eyes  that  had  lost  their  old  look  of 
surprise  turned  to  the  light,  Mrs.  Chadwick  as 
sented,  "It's  very  fatiguing  to  live  with,  certainly. 
Sometimes  I  really  think  I  must  go  away  for  a  little 
while  and  have  a  change.  Nancy  would  come  and 
stay  with  Meg,  you  know.  But  I  can't  miss  Bar 
ney's  last  weeks.  He  comes  to  us,  now,  again.  And 
it  might  not  be  right  to  leave  Meg.  One  must  not 
think  of  oneself  at  a  time  like  this,  must  one?"  The 
knitting  lay  in  her  lap  and  she  was  twisting  and  un 
twisting  her  handkerchief  after  her  old  fashion ;  but 


248  ADRIENNE  TONER 

her  fingers  moved  slowly  and  without  agitation  and 
Old  meadow  saw  that  some  spring  of  life  in  her  had 
been  broken. 

"The  best  plan  would  be  that  Meg  should,  as 
soon  as  possible,  take  up  some  work,"  he  said,  "and 
that  you  and  Nancy  should  go  away.  Work  is  the 
only  thing  for  Meg  now.  She'll  dash  herself  to 
pieces  down  here;  and  you  with  her.  There'll  soon 
be  plenty  to  do.  Nursing  and  driving  ambulances." 

"Nancy  is  going  to  nurse,  you  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Chadwick.  "But  she  won't  go  as  long  as  we  need 
her  here.  She  has  promised  me  that.  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  do  without  Nancy.  I  shouldn't  care 
to  be  nursed  by  Meg  myself,  if  I  were  a  wounded 
soldier.  She  is  so  very  restless  and  would  probably 
forget  quite  simple  things  like  giving  one  a  hand 
kerchief  or  seeing  that  hot-water-bottles  were 
wrapped  up  before  she  put  them  to  one's  feet.  A 
friend  of  mine  —  Amy  Hatchard  —  such  a  pretty 
woman,  though  her  hair  was  bright,  bright  red  — 
and  I  never  cared  for  that  —  had  the  soles  of  her 
feet  nearly  scorched  off  once  by  a  careless  nurse. 
Dear  Nancy.  I  often  think  of  Nancy  now,  Roger. 
I  believe,  you  know,  that  if  Adrienne  had  not  come 
Nancy  and  Barney  might  have  married.  How  happy 
we  should  all  have  been;  though  she  has  so  little 
money." 

"  I  wish  you  could  all  think  a  little  more  kindly  of 
Adrienne,"  said  Oldmeadow  after  a  silence.  Mrs. 
Chadwick  had  begun  to  knit.  "  I  must  tell  you  that 
I  myself  feel  differently  about  her." 

"Do  you,  Roger?"  said  Mrs.  Chadwick,  without 
surprise.  "You  have  a  very  judicious  and  balanced 
mind,  I  know;  even  when  you  were  hardly  more 


ADRIENNE  TONER  249 

than  a  boy  Francis  noticed  it  and  said  that  he'd 
rather  go  by  your  opinion  than  by  that  of  most  of 
the  men  he  knew.  I  always  remembered  that,  after 
wards.  Till  she  came.  And  then  I  believed  in  her 
rather  than  in  you.  You  thought  us  all  far  too  fond 
of  her  from  the  very  first.  And  now  we  have  cer 
tainly  changed.  Meg  is  certainly  very  violent;  much 
more  violent  than  I  could  ever  be.  ...  I  am  sorry 
for  Adrienne.  I  don't  think  she  meant  to  do  us  any 
harm  —  as  Meg  believes." 

"She  only  meant  to  do  you  good,  I  am  sure  of  it. 
I  saw  her  in  Oxford,  let  me  tell  you  about  it,  when  I 
went  in  to  see  Palgrave.  She  is  very  unhappy.  She 
wants  Palgrave  to  go.  She  wants  him  to  feel  it  right 
to  go.  It's  not  she,  really,  who  is  keeping  him  back 
now." 

"My  poor  Palgrave.  Meg  is  very  unkind  about 
him ;  very  bitter  and  unkind ;  her  own  brother.  But 
it  was  very  wrong  of  Adrienne  to  go  and  set  up 
housekeeping  in  Oxford  near  him.  You  must  own 
that,  Roger.  She  may  not  be  keeping  him  back ;  but 
she  is  aiding  and  abetting  him  always.  It  made 
Barney  even  more  miserable  and  disgusted  than  he 
was  before.  And  it  looks  so  very  odd.  Though  I 
don't  think  that  anyone  "could  ever  gossip  about 
Adrienne.  There  is  something  about  her  that  makes 
that  impossible." 

"There  certainly  is.  I  am  glad  she  is  with  Pal 
grave,  poor  boy." 

"I  am  glad  you  are  sorry  for  him,  Roger" 
Mrs.  Chadwick  dropped  a  needle.    "How  clumsy 
I  am.  My  fingers  seem  all  to  have  turned  to  thumbs. 
Thank  you  so  much.    I  try  to  make  as  many  socks 
as  I  can  for  our  poor  men;  fingering  wool;  not 


250  ADRIENNE  TONER 

wheeling,  which  is  so  much  rougher  to  the  feet.  I'm 
sure  I'd  rather  march,  and,  if  it  came  to  that,  die 
in  fingering  than  in  wheeling.  Just  as  I've  always 
felt,  foolish  as  it  may  sound,  that  if  I  had  to  be 
drowned  I'd  rather  it  were  in  warm,  soapy  water 
than  in  cold  salt.  Not  that  one  is  very  likely,  ever, 
to  drown  in  one's  bath.  But  tell  me  about  Adrienne 
and  Palgrave,  Roger,  and  what  they  said." 

Mrs.  Chadwick's  discourse  seemed,  beforehand, 
to  make  anything  he  might  have  to  tell  irrelevant 
and,  even  while  he  tried  to  make  her  see  what  he 
had  seen,  he  felt  it  to  be  a  fruitless  effort. 

There  was  indeed  no  enmity  to  plead  against. 
Only  a  deep  exhaustion.  Adrienne  had  pressed  too 
heavily  on  the  spring  and  it  was  broken. 

"  I'm  sure  she  is  very  sorry  to  have  made  so  much 
mischief,  but  she  isn't  what  I  thought  her,  Roger," 
she  said,  shaking  her  head,  when  he  had  finished. 
"I'm  sorry  for  her,  but  I  used  to  believe  her  to  be  a 
sort  of  saint  and  now  I  know  that  she  is  very  far 
indeed  from  being  one." 

"The  mere  fact  of  failure  doesn't  deprive  you  of 
sainthood,"  said  Oldmeadow,  remembering  Nancy's 
plea.  "You  haven't  less  reason  now  than  you  had 
then  for  believing  her  one." 

But  even  with  her  broken  spring  Mrs.  Chad  wick 
had  not  lost  all  her  shrewdness.  It  flickered  in  the 
sad  eyes  she  lifted  from  the  khaki  sock.  "Some 
kinds  of  failure  do,  Roger.  That  gift  of  healing,  you 
remember;  all  she  could  do  for  people  in  that  way; 
she  has  quite,  quite  lost  it.  That  is  a  reason.  It's 
that  more  than  anything  that  has  made  me  feel 
differently  about  her." 

"Lost  it?"  He  felt  strangely  discomposed,  little 
as  the  gift  of  healing  had  ever  impressed  him. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  251 

"Quite,"  Mrs.  Chadwick  repeated.  "I  think  it 
distressed  her  dreadfully  herself.  I  think  she  counted 
upon  it  more  than  upon  anything,  perhaps  without 
knowing  she  did.  It  must  have  made  her  seem  so 
sure  to  herself,  mustn't  it?  The  first  time  was  be 
fore  the  war,  just  a  little  after  you  were  here  that 
day  in  the  summer  —  dear  me,  how  long  ago  it 
seems;  and  I  had  one  of  my  headaches,  one  of  the 
worst  I  ever  had.  I  was  so  dreadfully  troubled,  you 
know,  about  Barbara  and  Meg.  And  Adrienne 
came  and  sat  by  me  as  she  used  to  and  put  her  hand 
on  my  forehead;  and  I  know  it  wasn't  my  lack  of 
faith,  for  I  quite  believed  it  would  get  well;  but 
instead  of  the  peaceful  feeling,  it  grew  much  worse ; 
oh,  much.  As  if  red  hot  needles  were  darting  through 
my  eyes  and  an  iron  weight  pressing  down  on  my 
head.  And  such  tumult  and  distress.  I  had  to  tell 
her.  I  had  to  ask  her  to  take  away  her  hand.  Oh, 
she  felt  it  very  much,  poor  thing,  and  grew  very 
white  and  said  it  must  be  because  she  was  still  not 
strong;  not  quite  herself.  But  I  knew  then  that  it 
was  because  she  was  not  right;  not  what  I  had 
thought  her.  I  began  to  suspect,  from  that  very 
moment,  that  I  had  been  mistaken ;  because  hypno 
tizing  people  isn't  the  same  as  being  a  saint,  is  it, 
Roger?  and  —  I  think  you  said  so  once,  long  ago ;  and 
that  was  all  that  she  had  done;  hypnotized  us  all 
to  think  her  good  and  wonderful.  Later  on,  after 
Meg  had  come,  I  let  her  try  once  more,  though  it 
quite  frightened  me ;  she  looked  so  strange.  And !  - 
oh,  dear  —  it  was  dreadful.  It  distressed  me  dread 
fully.  She  suddenly  put  her  hands  before  her  face 
and  sat  quite  still  and  then  she  burst  into  tears  and 
got  up  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  crying.  It  made  me 


252  ADRIENNE  TONER 

feel  quite  ill.  And  of  course  I  knew  there  could  be 
nothing  saintly  about  a  person  who  made  you  feel 
like  that  —  who  could  feel  like  that  themselves,  and 
break  down." 

"Even  saints  have  their  times  of  darkness  and 
dryness,"  Oldmeadow  found  after  a  little  time  had 
passed.  The  picture  she  put  before  him  hurt  him. 
"It  was  an  error  of  judgment  to  have  believed  her 
a  saint  because  she  could  hypnotize  you  —  if  that 
was  what  it  was;  but  the  fact  that  she  can't  hypno 
tize  you  any  longer  —  that  she's  too  unhappy  to 
have  any  power  of  that  sort  —  doesn't  prove  she's 
not  a  saint.  Of  course  she's  not.  Why  should  she 
be?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  she  should  be;  but 
she  used  to  behave  as  if  she  were  one,  didn't  she? 
And  when  I  saw  that  she  wasn't  one  in  that  way  I 
began  to-see  that  she  wasn't  in  other  ways,  too.  It 
was  she  who  made  me  so  unjust,  so  unkind  to  poor 
Barney.  She  was  so  unjust  and  so  unkind;  and  I 
never  saw  it  till  then.  I  was  blind  till  then ;  though 
you  saw  very  well,  that  day  you  came  to  Con- 
naught  Square,  that  it  was  a  sort  of  spell  she  cast. 
It  was  a  spell,  Roger.  The  moment  I  saw  her,  after 
the  baby's  death,  I  forgot  everything  she'd  done 
and  felt  I  loved  her  again.  She  willed  me  to.  So  as 
to  get  power  over  me.  Everything,  always,  with  her, 
was  to  get  power  over  other  people's  lives,"  said 
Mrs.  Chadwick,  and  as  he  had,  in  the  past,  heard 
echoes  of  Adrienne  in  all  she  said,  now  he  heard 
echoes  of  Meg,  "It's  by  willing  it,  you  know.  Some 
people  practise  it  like  five-finger  exercises.  You 
have  to  sit  quite  still  and  shut  your  eyes  and  con 
centrate.  Meg  has  heard  how  it's  done.  I  don't  pre- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  253 

tend  to  understand;  but  that  must  have  been  her 
way.  And  she  made  poor  Barney  miserable  and  set 
me  against  him  at  once ;  you  said  so  yourself,  Roger, 
and  blinded  me  to  all  the  cruel  things  she  did.  It 
was  to  punish  him,  you  know.  To  make  him  feel 
he  was  dreadfully  wrong  and  she  quite  right;  about 
Meg,  and  everything  else ;  for  you  came  in,  too.  It 
used  to  be  so  dreadful  at  Torquay.  I  knew  it  would 
be  sad  there ;  but  I  never  guessed  how  sad  it  would 
be  —  with  that  horrid  blue,  blue  sea.  She  used  to 
sit,  day  after  day,  on  the  terrace  of  the  house,  and 
gaze  and  gaze  at  the  sea  and  if  Barney  would  come, 
so  lovingly,  and  ask  her  what  he  could  do  for  her 
and  take  her  hand,  oh,  it  was  more  and  more  mourn 
ful,  the  way  she  would  look  at  him;  that  dreadful, 
loving  look  that  didn't  mean  love  at  all,  but  only 
trying  to  break  him  down  and  make  him  say  that 
he  was  down.  I  begged  Barney's  pardon,  Roger,  for 
having  treated  him  as  I  did.  We  treated  him  dread 
fully,  all  of  us;  because  she  put  him,  always,  in  the 
wrong.  Oh,  no,  Roger,  I'm  sorry  for  her,  but  she's 
a  dangerous  woman;  or  was  dangerous.  For  now 
she  has  lost  it  all  and  has  become  like  everybody 
else;  quite  ordinary  and  unhappy." 

He  felt,  in  the  little  silence  that,  again,  followed, 
that  he  could  hardly  better  this  summing-up.  That 
was  precisely  what  poor  Adrienne  Toner  had  be 
come;  ordinary  and  unhappy.  The  two  things  she 
would  have  believed  herself  least  capable  of  be 
coming.  There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  in  urging 
extenuating  circumstances,  especially  since  he  was 
not  sure  that  there  were  any.  Mrs.  Chadwick,  at 
bottom,  saw  as  clearly  as  he  did.  He  asked  her 
presently,  leaving  the  theme  of  Adrienne,  whether 


254  ADRIENNE  TONER 

she  would  not  seriously  consider  going  away  for  a 
little  while  with  Nancy.  "Meg  could  go  down  to 
The  Little  House,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,  she  couldn't,  Roger,"  said  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick,  "she  won't  go  anywhere.  She'll  hardly  speak 
to  Monica.  She  just  sits  out-of-doors,  all  day, 
wrapped  in  a  cloak,  in  the  corner  of  the  garden, 
staring  in  front  of  her,  and  she  pays  not  the  slightest 
attention  to  anything  I  say.  And  at  night,  in  her 
room,  I  hear  her  sobbing,  sobbing,  as  if  her  heart 
would  break.  I  can't  think  hardly  of  Eric  any 
longer,  Roger.  Isn't  it  strange;  but  it's  almost  as  if 
he  were  my  son  that  had  been  killed.  And  Barney 
may  be  killed,"  the  poor  mother's  lip  and  chin  be 
gan  to  tremble.  "And  you,  too,  Roger.  I  don't 
know  how  we  shall  live  through  all  that  we  must 
bear  and  I  keep  thinking  of  the  foolish  little  things, 
like  your  having  cold  feet  and  wearing  the  same 
clothes  day  after  day  in  those  horrible  trenches. 
He  suffered  it  all,  poor  Eric.  No,  I  can't  think 
hardly  of  him.  All  the  same,"  she  sobbed,  "my 
heart  is  broken  when  I  remember  that  they  can 
never  be  married  now." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"THAT'S  the  way  Mummy  surprises  one,"  said 
Barney  as  he  and  Oldmeadow  went  together  through 
the  Coldbrooks  woods.  "One  feels  her,  usually, 
such  a  darling  goose  and  then,  suddenly,  she  shows 
one  that  she  can  be  a  heroine." 

Barney  was  going  to  France  in  two  days'  time 
and  Oldmeadow  within  the  fortnight,  and  the  Cold- 
brooks  good-byes  had  just  been  said.  It  had  been 
poor  Meg  who  had  broken  down  and  clung  and 
cried.  Mrs.  Chadwick  had,  to  the  very  last,  talked 
with  grave  cheerfulness  of  Barney's  next  leave  and 
given  wise  advice  as  if  he  had  been  merely  leaving 
them  for  a  rather  perilous  mountain-climbing  feat. 
Oldmeadow  could  hardly  believe  her  the  same  wo 
man  that  he  had  seen  ten  days  before. 

He  was  staying  at  The  Little  House  and  had 
come  up  on  this  afternoon  of  Barney's  departure 
to  join  him  at  Coldbrooks  and  walk  down  with  him. 
Barney  had  not  yet  seen  or  said  good-bye  to  Nancy 
and  her  mother,  and  Oldmeadow  had  seized  this, 
his  only  chance,  of  a  talk  with  him.  But,  as  they 
left  the  woods  and  began  to  climb  the  bare  hill-side, 
Barney  went  on: 

"I've  wanted  a  talk,  too,  Roger.  I'm  glad  you 
managed  this." 

"  It  doesn't  rob  anyone  of  you,  does  it,"  said  Old- 
meadow.  "We'll  get  to  Chelford  in  time  to  give  you 
a  good  half-hour  with  them  before  your  car  comes 
for  you." 

"That  will  be  enough  for  Nancy,"  said  Barney, 


256  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"The  less  she  sees  of  me,  the  better  she's  pleased. 
I've  lots  of  things  I  want  to  say,  Roger.  Of  course 
you  understand  that  in  every  way  it's  a  relief  to  be 
going  out." 

"It  settles  things;  or  seems  to  settle  them,"  said 
Oldmeadow.  "They  take  another  place  at  all 
events." 

"Yes;  just  that.  They  take  another  place.  What 
difference  does  it  make,  after  all,  if  a  fellow  has  made 
a  mess  of  his  personal  life  when  his  personal  life  has 
ceased  to  count.  I'm  not  talking  mawkish  senti 
ment  when  I  say  I  hope  I'll  be  killed  —  if  I  can  be 
of  some  use  first.  I  see  no  other  way  out  of  it.  I'm 
sorry  for  Adrienne,  after  a  fashion,  for  she's  dished 
herself,  too.  We  made  a  hopeless  mistake  in  getting 
married  and  she  knows  it  as  well  as  I  do;  and  when 
a  man  and  woman  don't  love  each  other  any  longer 
it's  the  man's  place  to  get  out  if  he  can." 

"It  was  about  Adrienne  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you, 
Barney."  For  the  first  time  in  their  long  friendship 
Oldmeadow  felt  that  he  spoke  to  an  equal.  Barney 
had  at  last  ceased  to  be  a  boy.  "I've  seen  her,  since 
seeing  you  that  last  time  in  the  train." 

"Well?"  Barney  inquired,  as  Oldmeadow  paused. 
"What  have  you  got  to  say  to  me  about  Adrienne, 
Roger?  You've  not  said  very  much,  from  the  be 
ginning;  but  everything  you  have  said  has  been  true 
and  I've  forgotten  none  of  it.  I'm  the  more  in 
clined,"  and  he  smiled  with  a  slight  bitterness,  "to 
listen  to  you  now." 

"That's  just  the  trouble,"  Oldmeadow  muttered. 
"  You've  forgotten  nothing.  That's  what  I  feel,  with 
remorse.  That  it  was  I  who  helped  to  spoil  things 
for  you  both,  from  the  beginning.  You'd  not  have 


ADRIENNE  TONER  257 

seen  her  defects  as  you  did  if  I  hadn't  shown  them 
to  you;  and  if  you  hadn't  seen  them  you'd  have  ad 
justed  yourself  to  each  other  and  have  found  them 
out  together.  She'd  not  have  resented  your  finding 
them  out  in  the  normal  course  of  your  shared  lives. 
It's  been  my  opinion  of  her,  in  the  background  of 
both  your  minds,  that  has  envenomed  everything." 
Barney  listened  quietly.  "Yes,"  he  assented. 
"That's  all  true  enough.  As  far  as  it  goes.  I 
mightn't  have  seen  if  you  hadn't  shown  me.  But 
I  can't  regret  you  did  show  me,  for  anything  else 
would  have  been  to  have  gone  through  life  blind ;  as 
blind  as  Adrienne  is  herself.  And  it's  because  she 
can't  stand  being  seen  through  that  she  revealed  so 
much  more;  so  much  that  you  didn't  see  and  that  I 
had  to  find  out  for  myself.  What  you  saw  was  ab 
surdity  and  inexperience;  they're  rather  loveable 
defects ;  I  think  I  accepted  them  from  the  beginning, 
because  of  all  the  other  things  I  believed  in  her.  You 
said,  too,  you  remember,  that  she'd  never  know  she 
was  wrong.  Well,  it's  worse  than  that.  She'll  never 
know  she's  wrong  and  she  won't  bear  it  that  you 
should  think  her  anything  but  right.  She's  rapa 
cious.  She's  insatiable.  Nothing  but  everything 
will  satisfy  her.  You  must  be  down  on  your  knees, 
straight  down,  before  her;  and  if  you're  not,  she  has 
no  use  for  you.  She  turns  to  stone  and  you  break 
your  head  and  your  heart  against  her.  It's  hatred 
Adrienne  has  felt  for  me,  Roger,  and  I'm  afraid 
I've  felt  it  for  her,  too.  She's  done  things  and  said 
things  that  I  couldn't  have  believed  her  capable  of; 
mean  things;  clever  things;  cruelly  clever  that  get 
you  right  on  the  raw;  things  I  can't  forget.  There's 
much  more  in  her  than  you  saw  at  the  beginning. 


258  ADRIENNE  TONER 

I  was  right  rather  than  you  about  that;  only  they 
weren't  the  things  I  thought." 

Oldmeadow  walked,  cutting  at  the  withered  way 
side  grasses  with  his  cane.  Barney's  short,  slow  sen 
tences  seemed  to  sting  him  as  they  came.  He  had  to 
adjust  himself  to  their  smart;  to  adjust  himself  to 
the  thought  of  this  malignant  Adrienne.  Yet  what 
he  felt  was  not  all  surprise;  he  had  foreseen,  sus 
pected,  even  this.  "I  know,"  he  said  at  last;  "I 
mean,  I  can  see  that  it  would  happen  just  like  that." 

"It  did  happen  just  like  that,"  said  Barney.  "I 
don't  claim  to  have  been  an  angel  or  anything  like 
one.  I  gave  her  as  good  as  I  got,  or  nearly,  some 
times,  no  doubt.  But  I  know  that  it  wasn't  my 
fault.  I  know  it  was  Adrienne  who  spoiled  every 
thing." 

They  had  come  out  now  on  the  upland  road.  The 
country  dropped  away  beneath  them  wrapped  in 
the  dull  mole-colour,  the  distant,  dull  ultramarines 
of  the  November  afternoon.  The  smell  of  burning 
weeds  was  in  the  air  and,  in  the  west,  a  long,  melan 
choly  sheet  of  advancing  rain-cloud  hid  the  sun. 
Oldmeadow  wondered  if  he  and  Barney  would  ever 
walk  there  together  again,  and  his  mind  plunged 
deep  into  the  past,  the  many  years  of  friendship  to 
which  this  loved  country  had  been  a  background. 

"Barney,"  he  said,  "what  I  wanted  to  say  is  this: 
All  that  you  feel  is  true;  I'm  sure  of  it.  But  other 
things  are  true,  too.  I've  seen  her  and  I've  changed 
about  her.  If  I  was  right  before,  I'm  right  now. 
She's  been  blind  because  she  didn't  know  she  could 
be  broken.  Well,  she's  beginning  to  break." 

"Is  she?"  said  Barney,  and  his  quiet  was  im 
placable.  "I  can  quite  imagine  that,  you  know. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  259 

Everyone,  except  poor  Palgrave  —  all  the  rest  of 
us,  have  found  out  that  she's  not  the  beautiful  be 
nignant  being  she  thought  she  was,  and  that  bewil 
ders  her  and  makes  her  pretty  wretched,  no  doubt." 

Oldmeadow  waited  a  moment.  "I  want  you  to 
see  her,"  he  said.  "Don't  be  cruel.  You  are  a  little 
cruel,  you  know.  It's  because  you  are  thinking  of 
her  abstractly ;  remembering  only  how  she  has  hurt 
you.  If  you  could  see  her,  see  how  unhappy  she  is, 
you'd  feel  differently.  That's  what  I  want  you  to  do. 
That's  what  I  beg  you  to  do,  Barney." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Barney  after  a  moment.  "That  I 
can't  do,  Roger.  It's  over.  She  might  want  me  back 
if  she  could  get  me  back  adoring  her.  It's  only  so 
she'd  want  me.  But  it's  over.  It's  more  than  over. 
There's  something  else."  Barney's  face  showed  no 
change  from  its  sad  fixity.  "You  were  right  about 
that,  too.  It's  Nancy  I  ought  to  have  married.  It's 
Nancy  I  love.  And  Adrienne  knows  it." 

At  this  there  passed  before  Oldmeadow's  mind 
the  memory  of  the  small,  dark,  hurrying  figure,  the 
memory  of  the  words  she  had  spoken:  "Some 
things  are  like  living  creatures;  and  they  can  die. 
They  can  die." 

He  felt  rather  sick.  "In  that  case,  how  can  you 
blame  your  wife?"  he  muttered.  "Doesn't  that  ex 
plain  it  all?" 

"No,  it  doesn't  explain  it  all."  There  was  no  fire 
of  self-justification  in  Barney's  voice.  It  was  as 
fixed  and  sad  as  his  face.  "It  was  only  after  Ad 
rienne  made  me  so  wretched  I  began  to  find  it  out. 
She  was  jealous  of  Nancy  from  the  beginning,  of 
course.  But  then  she  was  jealous  of  everything  that 
rwasn't,  every  bit  of  it,  hers.  She  had  no  reason  for 


260  ADRIENNE  TONER 

jealousy.  No  man  was  ever  more  in  love  than  I  was 
with  Adrienne.  Even  now  I  don't  feel  for  Nancy 
what  I  felt  for  her.  It's  something,  I  believe,  one 
only  feels  once  and  if  it  burns  out  it  burns  out  for 
ever.  With  Nancy,  it's  as  if  I  had  come  home;  and 
Adrienne  and  I  were  parted  before  I  knew  that  I 
was  turning  to  her." 

They  had  begun  the  final  descent  into  Chelford 
and  the  wind  now  brought  a  fine  rain  against  their 
faces.;:  Neither  spoke  again  until  the  grey  roofs  of 
the  village  came  into  sight  at  a  turning  of  the  road. 
"About  money  matters,  Roger,"  Barney  said. 
"Mother  and  Meg  and  Barbara.  If  you  get  through, 
and  I  don't,  will  you  see  to  them  for  me?  I've  ap 
pointed  you  my  trustee.  I  told  Adrienne  last  sum 
mer  that  I  couldn't  take  any  of  her  money  any 
longer,  so  that,  of  course,  with  my  having  thrown 
up  the  city  job  and  taken  on  the  farms,  my  affairs 
are  in  a  bit  of  a  mess.  But  I  hope  they'll  be  able  to 
go  on  at  Coldbrooks  all  right.  Palgrave  will  have 
Coldbrooks  if  I  don't  come  back,  and  perhaps  you'll 
be  able  to  prevent  him  handing  it  over  to  his  So 
cialist  friends." 

"Palgrave  would  be  safely  human  if  it  came  to 
taking  care  of  his  mother  and  sisters,"  said  Old- 
meadow. 

"Would  he?"  said  Barney.  "I  don't  know." 

Across  the  village  green  the  lights  of  The  Little 
House  shone  at  them.  The  curtains  were  still  un 
drawn  and,  as  they  waited  at  the  door,  they  could 
see  Nancy  in  the  drawing-room,  sitting  by  the  fire 
alone. 

"I  want  you  to  come  in  with  me,  please,  Roger," 
said  Barney.  "Nancy  hasn't  felt  it  right  to  be 


ADRIENNE  TONER  261 

very  kind  to  me  of  late  and  she'll  be  able  to  be 
kinder  if  you  are  there.  You'll  know,  you'll  see  if  a 
chance  comes  for  me  to  say  what  I  want  to  say  to 
her.  You  might  leave  us  for  a  moment  then." 

"You  have  hardly  more  than  a  half-hour,  you 
know,"  said  Old  meadow. 

"One  can  say  a  good  deal  in  a  half-hour,"  Barney 
replied. 

Nancy  had  risen  and,  as  they  entered,  she  came 
forward,  trying  to  smile  and  holding  out  her  hand 
to  each.  But  Oldmeadow  was  staying  there.  He 
was  not  going  in  half  an  hour.  There  was  no  reason 
why  Nancy  should  give  him  her  hand  and  Barney, 
quietly,  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  "  It's  good-bye, 
then,  Nancy,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

They  stood  there  in  the  firelight  together,  his 
dear  young  people,  both  so  pale,  both  so  fixedly 
looking  at  each  other,  and  Nancy  still  tried  to  smile 
as  she  said,  "It's  dear  of  you  to  have  come."  But 
her  face  betrayed  her.  It  was  sick  with  the  fear 
that,  in  conquering  her  own  heart,  she  should  hurt 
Barney's;  Barney's,  whom  she  might  never  see 
again.  Oldmeadow  went  on  to  the  fire  and  stood,  his 
back  to  them,  looking  down  at  it. 

"Oh, no,  it'snot;  not  dear  at  all,  "Barney  returned. 
"You  knew  I'd  come  to  say  good-bye,  of  course. 
Why  haven't  you  been  over  to  see  me,  you  and 
Aunt  Monica?  I've  asked  you  often  enough." 

"You  mustn't  scold  me  to-day,  Barney,  since  it's 
good-bye.  We  couldn't  come,"  said  Nancy. 

"It's  never  I  who  scold  you.  It's  you  who  scold 
me.  Not  openly,  I  know,"  said  Barney,  "but  by 
implication;  punish  me,  by  implication.  I  quite 
understood  why  you  haven't  come.  Well,  I  want 


262  ADRIENNE  TONER 

things  to  be  clear  now.  Roger's  here,  and  I  want 
to  say  them  before  him,  because  he's  been  in  it  all 
since  the  beginning.  It's  because  of  Adrienne  you've 
never  come ;  and  changed  so  much  in  every  way  to 
wards  me." 

He  had  kept  her  hands  till  then,  but  Oldmeadow 
heard  now  that  she  drew  away  from  him.  For  a 
moment  she  did  not  speak;  and  then  it  was  not 
to  answer  him.  "Have  you  said  good-bye  to  her, 
Barney?" 

"No;  I  haven't,"  Barney  answered.  "I'm  not 
going  to  say  good-bye  to  Adrienne,  Nancy.  It  must 
be  plain  to  you  by  this  time  that  Adrienne  and  I 
have  parted.  What  did  it  all  mean  but  that?" 

"It  didn't  mean  that  to  her.  She  never  dreamed 
it  was  meaning  that,"  said  Nancy. 

"Well,  she  said  it,  often  enough,"  Barney  re 
torted. 

"Barney,  please  listen  to  me,"  said  Nancy.  "  You 
must  let  me  speak.  She  never  dreamed  it  was  mean 
ing  that.  If  she  was  unkind  to  you  it  was  because 
she  could  not  believe  it  would  ever  mean  parting. 
She  had  started  wrong;  by  holding  you  to  blame; 
after  the  baby;  when  you  and  Roger  so  hurt  her 
pride.  And  then  she  wasn't  able  to  go  back.  She 
wasn't  able  to  see  it  all  so  differently  —  just  to  get 
you  back.  It  would  have  seemed  wrong  to  her;  a 
weakness,  just  because  she  longed  so.  And  then, 
most  of  all,  she  believed  you  loved  her  enough  to 
come  of  yourself." 

"I  tried  to,"  said  Barney,  in  the  sad,  bitter  voice 
of  the  hill-side  talk  with  Oldmeadow.  "You  see, 
you  don't  know  everything,  Nancy,  though  you 
know  so  much.  I  tried  to  again  and  again." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  263 

"Yes.  I  know  you  did.  But  only  on  your  own 
terms.  And  by  then  I  had  come  in.  Oh,  yes,  I  had, 
Barney.  You  didn't  know  it.  It  was  long,  long  be 
fore  you  knew.  But  I  knew  it ;  and  so  did  she  and  it 
was  more  than  she  could  bear.  What  woman  could 
bear  it?  I  couldn't  have,  in  her  place."  Tears  were 
in  Nancy's  voice. 

"It's  queer,  Nancy,"  said  Barney,  "that  —  bar 
ring  Palgrave,  who  doesn't  count  —  you  and  Roger 
are  the  only  two  people  she  has  left  to  stick  up  for 
her.  Roger's  just  been  saying  all  that  to  me,  you 
know.  The  two  she  tried  to  crab  whenever  she  got 
a  chance.  Well,  say  it's  my  fault,  then.  Say  that 
I've  been  faithless  to  my  wife  and  fallen  in  love  with 
another  woman.  The  fact  is  there,  and  you've  said 
it  now  yourself.  I  don't  love  her  any  longer.  I  shall 
never  love  her  again.  And  I  love  you.  I  love  you, 
Nancy,  and  it's  you  I  ought  to  have  married ;  would 
have  married,  I  believe,  if  I  hadn't  been  a  blinded 
fool.  I  love  you,  and  I  can  say  it  now  because  this 
may  be  the  end  of  everything.  Don't  let  her  spoil 
this,  too.  Nancy  darling,  look  at  me.  Can't  you 
consent  to  forget  Adrienne  for  this  one  time,  when 
we  may  never  see  each  other  again?" 

"I  can't  forget  her!    I  can't  forget  her!"  Nancy 
sobbed.    "I  mustn't.    She's  miserable.    She  hasn't 
stopped  loving  you.   And  she's  your  wife." 
"Do  you  want  to  make  me  hate  her?" 
"Oh,  Barney  —  that  is  cruel  of  you." 
There  was  a  silence  and  in  it  Oldmeadow  heard 
Barney's  car  draw  up  at  the  gate.   He  took  out  his 
watch.   There  were  only  a  few  more  moments  left 
them,    Not  turning  to  them  he  said.    "It  does  her 
no  good,  you  know,  Nancy  dear." 


264  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"No.  It  does  her  no  good,"  Barney  repeated. 
"But  forgive  me.  I  was  cruel.  I  don't  hate  her. 
I'm  sorry  for  her.  It's  simply  that  we  ought  never 
to  have  married.  Forget  it,  Nancy,  and  forget  her. 
Don't  let  it  be,  then,  that  I  love  you  and  don't  love 
my  wife.  Let  it  be  in  the  old  way.  As  if  she'd  never 
come.  As  if  I'd  come  to  say  good-bye  to  my  cousin; 
to  my  dearest  friend  on  earth.  Look  at  me.  Give 
me  your  hands.  It's  your  face  I  want  to  take  with 
me." 

''Five  minutes,  Barney,"  Oldmeadow  whispered, 
as  he  went  past  them.  Nancy  had  given  him  her 
hands;  she  had  lifted  her  face  to  his,  and  Barney's 
arms  had  closed  around  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MRS.  AVERIL  was  in  the  hall.  "Give  them  another 
moment,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going  outside." 

Tears  were  in  his  own  eyes.  He  stepped  out  on 
to  the  flagged  path  of  the  little  plot  in  front  of  the 
house  where  strips  of  turf  and  rose-beds  ran  be 
tween  the  house  and  the  high  wall.  Between  the 
clipped  holly-trees  at  the  gate  he  saw  Barney's 
car,  and  its  lights,  the  wall  between,  cast  a  deep 
shadow  over  the  garden. 

The  rain  was  falling  thickly  now  and  he  stood, 
feeling  it  on  his  face,  filled  with  a  sense  of  appease 
ment,  of  accomplishment.  They  were  together  at 
last.  It  was  not  too  late.  At  such  a  time,  when  all 
the  world  hung  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss,  to  be  to 
gether  for  a  moment  might  sum  up  more  of  real 
living  than  many  happy  years.  They  knew  each 
other's  hearts  and  what  more  could  life  give  its 
creatures  than  that  recognition. 

Suddenly,  how  he  did  not  know,  for  there  was  no 
apparent  movement  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
pallid  sky,  he  became  aware  that  a  figure  was  lean 
ing  against  the  house  in  the  shadow  beside  him.  His 
eyes  found  it  and  it  was  familiar.  Yet  he  could  not 
believe  his  eyes. 

She  was  leaning  back,  her  hands  against  the  wall 
on  either  side,  and  he  saw,  with  the  upper  layer  of 
perception  that  so  often  blunts  a  violent  emotion, 
that  her  feet  were  sunken  in  the  mould  of  Mrs. 
Averil's  rose-bed  and  that  the  cherished  shoots  of 


266  ADRIENNE  TONER 

the  new  climbing  rose  were  tangled  in  her  clothes. 
The  open  window  was  but  a  step  away. 

She  had  come  since  they  had  come.  She  had 
crept  up.  She  had  looked  in  —  for  how  long?  —  and 
had  fallen  back,  casting  out  her  arms  so  that  it 
might  not  be  to  the  ground.  Her  eyes  were  closed ; 
but  she  had  heard  and  seen  him.  As  he  stood  be 
fore  her,  aghast,  unable  to  find  a  word,  he  heard  her 
mutter:  "Take  me  away,  please." 

Barney's  car  blocked  the  egress  of  the  gate  and 
Barney  might  emerge  at  any  moment.  He  leaned 
towards  her  and  found  that  she  was  intricately 
caught  in  the  rose.  Her  hat  with  its  veil,  her  sleeve, 
her  hair,  were  all  entangled. 

Dumbly,  patiently,  she  stood,  while,  with  fum 
bling  fingers  and  terror  lest  they  should  be  heard 
within  —  Mrs.  Averil's  voice  now  reached  him  from 
the  drawing-room  —  Oldmeadow  released  her  and, 
his  fingers  deeply  torn  by  the  thorns,  he  was  aware, 
in  all  the  tumult  of  his  thought,  more  than  of  the 
pain,  of  the  wet  fragrance  of  the  roses  that  sur 
rounded  her.  He  shared  what  he  felt  to  be  her  panic. 

She  had  come  hoping  to  see  Barney;  she  had 
come  to  say  good-bye  to  Barney,  who  would  not 
come  to  her;  and  his  heart  sickened  for  her  at  the 
shameful  seeming  of  her  plight.  She  knew  now  that 
it  must  be  her  hope  never  to  see  Barney  again. 

There  was  a  narrow  passage,  leading  to  the  lawn 
and  garden,  between  the  house  and  the  stable  walls. 
Thickly  grown  with  ivy,  showing  only  a  narrow  open 
ing  above,  where  chimneys  and  gables  cut  against 
the  sky,  it  was  nearly  as  dark  as  a  tunnel,  and  into 
this  place  of  hiding  he  half  led,  half  carried  the  un 
fortunate  woman. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  267 

With  the  darkness,  the  pungent  smell  of  the  wet 
ivy  closed  thickly,  ominously  about  them.  It  was  as 
if  he  and  Adrienne  Toner  were  buried  there  together. 
He  heard  a  maid  laugh  far  away  and  a  boy  passed 
on  the  green  stridently  whistling  "Tipperary."  It 
was  like  hearing,  in  the  grave,  the  sounds  of  the 
upper  world. 

Adrienne  leaned  against  the  wall.  The  ivy  closing 
round  her,  nearly  obliterated  her,  but  he  could  dimly 
see  the  grey  disk  of  her  face,  showing  the  unex 
pectedness  of  contour  that  reveals  itself  in  the  faces 
of  the  dead.  The  trivial  features  were  erased  and 
only  a  shape  of  grief  remained,  strangely  august  and 
emotionless. 

An  eternity  seemed  to  pass  before  the  front  door 
opened  and  Mrs.  Averil's  voice,  steadied  to  a  gal 
vanized  cheerfulness,  came,  half  obliterated  to  a 
wordless  rhythm.  Barney's  voice  answered  her,  and 
his  steps  echoed  on  the  flagged  path.  "Say  good 
bye  to  Roger  for  me  if  I  don't  see  him  on  the  road !  " 
he  called  out  from  the  gate.  Then  the  car  coughed, 
panted;  the  horn  croaked  out  its  cry  and,  above 
them,  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  ivy,  of  which  he  had 
till  then  been  unaware,  flitted  suddenly  away, 
leaving  the  darkness  more  visible. 

He  heard  then  that  she  was  weeping. 

Putting  his  arm  behind  her,  for  the  rain  fell 
heavily  and  the  ivy  was  drenched  with  it,  he  drew 
her  forward  and  for  a  little  while  it  was  almost 
against  his  breast  that  she  lay  while  her  very  heart 
dissolved  itself  in  tears. 

She  had  come,  he  knew  it  all,  with  a  breakdown 
of  her  pride,  with  a  last  wild  hope  and,  perhaps,  a 
longing  to  atone,  believing  that  she  might  snatch 


268  ADRIENNE  TONER 

a  word  somewhere  with  her  husband,  and  find  her 
way,  at  this  last  moment,  back  to  the  heart  she  had 
so  alienated.  She  had  seen  all.  She  had  heard  all. 
He  was  sure  of  it.  It  had  been  as  an  outcast  that  he 
had  found  her  leaning  there.  He  understood  her 
through  and  through  and  the  tender  heaviness  that 
had  already  so  often  visited  his  heart  flooded  it  to 
suffocation. 

Among  her  sobs,  he  heard  her,  at  last,  speaking 
to  him.  "Even  Palgrave  doesn't  know.  He  told 
me  —  only  this  afternoon  —  that  Barney  was  here. 
I  thought  I  might  find  him.  I  was  going  to  wait  in 
the  road.  And  when  I  got  here  there  was  no  car  and 
I  was  afraid  that  there  was  a  mistake.  That  I  had 
missed  him.  And  I  went  up  to  the  house;  to  the 
open  window;  and  looked  in;  to  see  if  he  was  there. 
It  was  not  jealousy:  not  now.  I  did  not  mean  to  be 
an  eavesdropper.  But,  when  I  saw  them,  I  stayed 
and  listened.  It  was  not  jealousy,"  she  repeated. 
"It  was  because  I  had  to  know  that  there  was  no 
more  hope." 

"Yes,"  said  Oldmeadow  gently,  while,  with  long 
pauses,  she  spoke  on  and  on;  to  the  impartial  judge, 
to  the  one  sure  refuge;  and  he  said  "Yes"  again, 
gently,  after  she  had  finished;  a  long  time  after. 
She  still  half  lay  against  his  breast.  He  had  never 
felt  such  an  infinite  tenderness  towards  any  crea 
ture;  not  since  his  boyhood  and  his  mother's  death. 

She  drew  away  from  him  at  last.  "Take  me," 
she  said.  "There  is  a  train;  back  to  Oxford."  She 
had  ceased  to  weep.  Her  voice  was  hoarse  and  faint. 

"Did  you  walk  up  from  the  station?  You're  not 
fit  to  walk  back.  I  can  get  a  trap.  There's  a  man 
just  across  the  green." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  269 

"No.  Walking,  please.  I  would  be  recognized. 
They  might  know  me.  I  can  walk.  If  you  will  help 
me." 

He  drew  her  arm  through  his.  "Lean  on  me," 
he  said.  "We'll  go  slowly. 

They  went  past  the  drawing-room  windows  and, 
softly  opening,  softly  shutting,  through  the  gate. 
The  road,  when  it  turned  the  corner,  left  the  village 
behind;  between  its  rarely  placed  trees,  vague  sil 
houettes  against  the  sky  that  seemed  of  one  texture 
with  them,  it  showed  its  mournful  pallor  for  only 
a  little  space  before  them;  there  was  not  enough 
light  left  in  the  sky  to  glimmer  on  its  pools.  The 
fields,  on  either  side,  vanished  into  obscurity.  Pale 
cattle,  once,  over  a  hedge,  put  disconsolate  heads 
and  lowed  and  a  garrulous  dog,  as  they  passed  by, 
ran  out  from  a  way-side  farm-yard,  smelt  at  their 
heels,  growled  perfunctorily  and,  having  satisfied 
his  sense  of  duty,  went  back  to  his  post.  The  sense 
of  dumb  emptiness  was  so  complete  that  it  was  only 
after  they  had  gone  a  long  way  that  he  knew  that 
she  was  weeping  and  the  soft,  stifling  sounds  seemed 
only  a  part  of  nature's  desolation. 

Her  head  bent  down,  she  stumbled  on,  leaning 
on  his  arm,  and  from  time  to  time  she  raised  her 
handkerchief  and  pressed  it  to  her  mouth  and  nose. 
He  did  not  say  a  word ;  nor  did  she. 

As  he  led  her  along,  submissive  to  her  doom,  it 
was  another  feeling  of  accomplishment  that  over 
whelmed  him;  the  dark  after  the  radiant;  after 
Nancy  and  Barney,  he  and  Adrienne.  It  was  this, 
from  their  first  meeting,  that  he  had  been  destined 
to  mean  to  her.  She  was  his  appointed  victim.  He 
had  killed,  as  really  as  if  with  a  knife,  the  girl  whom 


270  ADRIENNE  TONER 

he  had  seen  at  Cold  brooks,  in  the  sunlight,  on  that 
Sunday  morning  in  spring,  knowing  no  doubts.  She 
had  then  held  the  world  in  her  hands  and  a  guileless, 
untried  heaven  had  filled  her  heart.  Between  her 
and  this  crushed  and  weeping  woman  there  seemed 
no  longer  any  bond ;  unless  it  was  the  strange  aching 
that,  in  his  heart,  held  them  both  together. 


PART  II 


PART  II 
CHAPTER  I 

OLDMEADOW  sat  in  Mrs.  Aldesey's  drawing-room 
and,  the  tea-table  between  them,  Mrs.  Aldesey 
poured  out  his  tea.  So  it  was,  after  three  years,  that 
they  found  each  other.  So  it  was,  all  over  the  world, 
Oldmeadow  said  to  himself,  that  the  tea-table,  or 
its  equivalent,  reasserted  itself  in  any  interval 
where  the  kindly  amenities  of  human  intercourse 
could  root  themselves ;  though  the  world  rocked  and 
flames  of  anarchy  rimmed  its  horizons. 

It  was  more  real,  he  felt  that  now,  to  sit  and  look 
at  Lydia  over  her  tea  than  to  parch  on  Eastern 
sands  and  shiver  in  Western  trenches;  from  the 
mere  fact  that  the  one  experience  became  a  night 
mare  while  the  other  was  as  natural  as  waking  at 
dawn.  Horrors  became  the  dropped  stitches  of  life; 
and  though  if  there  were  too  many  of  them  they 
would  destroy  the  stocking,  the  stocking  itself  was 
made  up  of  tea-table  talks  and  walks  in  the  woods 
with  Nancy.  He  had  just  come  from  Coldbrooks. 

So  he  put  it,  trivially,  to  himself,  and  he  felt  the 
need  of  clinging  to  triviality.  The  dropped  stitches 
had  been  almost  too  much  for  him  and  the  night 
mare,  at  times,  had  seemed  the  only  reality.  At 
times  he  had  known  a  final  despair  of  life  and  even 
now  he  remembered  that  the  worst  might  still  come. 
One  might  be  called  upon  to  face  the  death  of  the 
whole  order  of  civilization.  Faith  required  one,  per 
haps,  to  recognize  that  the  human  spirit  was  bound 


274  ADRIENNE  TONER 

up,  finally,  with  no  world  order  and  unless  one  could 
face  its  destruction  as  one  had  to  face  the  death  of  a 
loved  individual,  one  was  not  secure  of  the  spiritual 
order  that  transcended  all  mundane  calamity.  He 
believed,  or  hoped,  that  during  these  last  three 
years,  in  Gallipoli,  Egypt  and  Palestine,  when,  to 
the  last  fibre,  he  had  felt  his  faiths  tested,  he  had 
learned  to  be  ready  for  the  great  relinquishment, 
should  it  be  required  of  him;  and  it  was  therefore 
the  easier  to  doff  that  consciousness,  as  he  might 
have  doffed  a  sword,  and  think  of  Lydia  and  of  the 
order  that  still  survived  and  that  she  still  stood  for. 

Lydia  did  not  look  the  worse  for  the  war;  indeed 
she  looked  the  better.  She  looked  as  if,  in  spite  of 
long  days  in  the  hospital,  she  digested  better  and,  in 
spite  of  air-raids,  slept  better,  and  as  they  talked, 
finding  their  way  back  to  intimacy  by  the  compar 
ing  of  such  superficialities,  she  told  him  that  for 
years  she  hadn't  been  so  strong  or  well.  "Nothing 
is  so  good  for  you,  I've  found  out,  as  to  feel  that  you 
are  being  used;  being  used  by  something  worth 
while.  People  like  myself  must  keep  still  about  our 
experiences,  for  we've  had  none  that  bear  talking 
of.  But  even  the  others,  even  the  people  bereaved 
unspeakably,  are  strangely  lifted  up.  And  I  believe 
that  the  populace  enjoys  the  air  raids  rather  than 
the  reverse ;  they  give  them  a  chance  of  feeling  that 
they  are  enduring  something,  too ;  with  good-humour 
and  pluck.  If  anyone  is  pessimistic  about  the  effect 
of  war  on  average  human  nature,  I  should  only  ask 
them  to  come  and  talk  to  our  men  at  the  hospital. 
Of  course,  under  it  all,  there's  the  ominous  roar  in 
one's  ears  all  the  time." 

"Do  you  mean  the  air-raids?"  he  asked  her  and, 


ADRIENNE  TONER  275 

shaking  her  head,  showing  him  that  she,  too,  had 
seen  with  him  and,  he  believed,  with  him  accepted : 
"No;  I  mean  the  roar  of  nation  after  nation  col 
lapsing  into  the  abyss.  A  sort  of  tumbril  roar  of 
civilization,  Roger.  And,  for  that,  there's  always 
the  last  resource  of  going  gallantly  to  the  guillotine. 
But  all  the  same,  I  believe  we  shall  pull  through." 

It  was  the  spring  of  1918  and  one  needed  faith  to 
believe.it.  She  asked  him  presently  about  his  friends 
at  Coldbrooks.  He  had  gone  to  Coldbrooks  for 
three  days  of  his  one  week's  leave.  After  this  he 
went  to  France. 

"What  changes  for  you  there,  poor  Roger,"  said 
Mrs.  Aldesey. 

"Yes.  Terrible  changes.  Palgrave  dead  and  Bar 
ney  broken.  Yet,  do  you  know,  it's  not  as  sad  as 
it  was.  Something's  come  back  to  it.  Nancy  sits 
by  him  and  holds  his  hand  and  is  his  joy  and  com 
fort." 

"Will  he  recover?" 

"Not  in  the  sense  of  being  really  mended.  He'll 
go  on  crutches,  always,  if  he  gets  up.  But  the  doc 
tors  now  hope  that  the  injury  to  the  back  isn't 
permanent." 

"And  Meg's  married,"  said  Mrs.  Aldesey  after 
a  little  pause.  "Have  you  seen  her?" 

"No.  She  runs  a  hospital  in  the  country,  at  her 
husband's  place,  Nancy  tells  me ;  and  is  very  happy." 

"Very.  Has  a  fine  boy,  and  is  completely  rein 
stated.  It's  a  remarkable  ending  to  the  story,  isn't 
it?  She  met  him  at  the  front,  you  know,  driving  her 
ambulance ;  and  he  has  twice  as  much  in  him  as  poor 
Eric  Hay  ward." 

"Remarkable.    Yet  Meg's  a  person  who  only 


276  ADRIENNE  TONER 

needs  her  chance.  She's  the  sort  that  always  comes 
out  on  top." 

"Does  it  comfort  her  mother  a  little  for  all  she's 
suffered  to  see  her  on  top?" 

"  It  almost  comically  comforts  her.  All  the  same, 
Eleanor  Chadwick  has  her  depths.  Nothing  will 
ever  comfort  her  for  Palgrave's  death." 

"I  understand  that,"  said  Mrs.  Aldesey.  "Noth 
ing  could.  How  she  must  envy  the  happy  mothers 
whose  boys  were  killed  at  the  front.  To  have  one's 
boy  die  in  prison  as  a  conscientious  objector  must 
be  the  bitterest  thing  the  war  has  given  any  mother 
to  bear." 

"He  was  a  dear  boy,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "Hero 
ically  wrong- minded."  He  could  hardly  bear  to 
think  of  Palgrave. 

"He  wasn't  alone,  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Aldesey 
after  a  moment.  Something  was  approaching  that 
he  would  rather  not  have  to  speak  of;  a  name  he 
would  so  much  rather  not  name.  And,  evading  it, 
feebly,  he  said,  "His  mother  got  to  him  in  time, 
I  know." 

"Yes.  But  all  the  time.  She  went  and  lived  near 
the  prison.  Adrienne  Toner  I  mean." 

Her  eyes  were  on  him  and  he  hoped  that  no  read 
justment  of  his  features  was  visible.  "Oh,  yes. 
Nancy  told  me  that,"  he  said. 

"What's  become  of  her,  Roger?"  Mrs.  Aldesey 
asked.  "Since  Charlie  was  killed  the  Lumleys  have 
lived  in  the  country  and  I  hardly  see  them.  I  haven't 
heard  a  word  of  her  for  years." 

He  was  keeping  his  eyes  on  her  and  he  knew  from 
her  expression  that  he  showed  some  strain  or  some 
distress. 


ADR1ENNE  TONER  277 

"  Nor  have  I.  Nancy  said  that  they  hadn't  either. 
She  went  away,  after  Palgrave's  death.  Disap 
peared  completely." 

"Nancy  told  you,  of  course,  about  the  money; 
the  little  fortune  she  gave  Palgrave,  so  that  he  could 
leave  it  to  his  mother?" 

"Oh,  yes.   Nancy  wrote  to  me  of  that." 

"  It  was  cleverly  contrived,  wasn't  it.  They  are 
quite  tied  up  to  it,  aren't  they;  whatever  they  may 
feel.  No  one  could  object  to  her  giving  a  fortune  to 
the  boy  she'd  ruined.  I  admired  that  in  her,  I  must 
confess ;  the  way  she  managed  it.  And  then  her  dis 
appearance." 

"Very  clever  indeed,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "All 
that  remains  for  her  to  do  now  is  to  manage  to  get 
killed.  And  that's  easily  managed.  Perhaps  she  is 
killed." 

He  did  not  intend  that  his  voice  should  be  emptier 
or  dryer,  yet  Lydia  looked  at  him  with  a  closer  at 
tention. 

"  Barney  and  Nancy  could  get  married  then,"  she 
said. 

"Yes.   Exactly.  They  could  get  married." 

"That's  what  you  want,  isn't  it,  Roger?" 

"Want  her  to  be  killed,  or  them  to  be  married?" 

"Well,  as  you  say,  so  many  people  are  being  killed. 
One  more  or  less,  if  it's  in  such  a  good  cause  as  their 
marriage  - 

"  It's  certainly  a  good  cause.  But  I  don't  like  the 
dilemma,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

He  knew  from  the  way  she  looked  at  him,  discreet 
and  disguised  as  her  recognition  was,  that  he  was 
hiding  something  from  her.  Casting  about  his  mind, 
in  the  distress  that  took  the  form  of  confusion,  he 


278  ADRIENNE  TONER 

could  himself  find  nothing  that  he  hid,  or  wished  to 
hide,  unless  it  was  the  end  of  Adrienne's  story  as 
Barney's  wife.  That  wasn't  for  him  to  show;  ever; 
to  anyone. 

"  Perhaps  she's  gone  back  to  America,"  said  Mrs. 
Aldesey  presently,  "California,  you  know.  Or  Chi 
cago.  She  may  very  well  be  engaged  in  great  enter 
prises  out  there  that  we  never  hear  of.  They'd  be 
sure  to  be  great,  wouldn't  they." 

"I  suppose  they  would." 

"You  saw  her  once  more,  didn't  you,  at  the  time 
you  saw  Palgrave,"  Mrs.  Aldesey  went  on.  "Lady 
Lumley  told  me  of  that.  And  how  kind  you  had 
been.  Adrienne  had  spoken  of  it.  You  were  sorry 
for  them  both,  I  suppose ;  for  her  as  well  as  for  him, 
in  spite  of  everything.  Or  did  she  merely  take  it  for 
granted  that  the  kindness  to  him  extended  to  her?" 

"  Not  at  all.  It  was  for  her  too,"  said  Oldmeadow, 
staring  a  little  and  gathering  together,  after  this 
lapse  of  time  that  seemed  so  immense,  his  memories 
of  that  other  tea-table  set  up  in  the  chaos :  Palgrave's 
tea-table  on  that  distant  day  in  Oxford.  What  was 
so  confusing  him  was  his  consciousness  that  it  hadn't 
been  the  last  time  he  had  seen  Adrienne.  "I  was  as 
sorry  for  her  as  for  him,"  he  went  on.  "Sorrier. 
There  was  so  much  more  in  her  than  I'd  supposed. 
She  was  capable  of  intense  suffering." 

"In  losing  her  husband's  affections,  you  mean? 
You  never  suspected  her  of  being  inhuman,  surely? 
Lady  Lumley  blamed  poor  Barney  for  all  that  sad 
story.  But,  even  from  her  account,  I  could  see  his 
side  very  plainly." 

"  Perhaps  I  did  think  her  inhuman.  At  all  events 
I  thought  her  invulnerable." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  279 

"Yes.  I  remember.  With  all  her  absurdity  you 
thought  she  had  great  power."  Mrs.  Aldesey  looked 
at  him  thoughtfully.  "And  it  was  when  you  found 
she  hadn't  that  you  could  be  sorry  for  her." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Oldmeadow  again.  "  I  still  think 
she  has  great  power.  People  can  have  power  and  go 
to  pieces." 

"Did  she  go  to  pieces?  That  day  in  Oxford?  I 
can't  imagine  her  in  pieces,  you  know." 

He  had  a  feeling  of  drawing  back;  or  of  drawing 
Adrienne  back.  "In  the  sense  of  being  so  unhappy, 
so  obviously  unhappy,  over  Palgrave,"  he  said. 

He  saw  that  Lydia  would  have  liked  to  go  on  ques 
tioning,  as,  of  course,  it  would  have  been  perfectly 
natural  for  her  to  do.  Was  not  Adrienne  Toner  and 
her  absurdity  one  of  their  pet  themes?  Yet  she  de 
sisted.  She  desisted  and  it  was  because  she  felt  some 
change  in  him;  some  shrinking  and  some  pain. 
"Well,  let's  hope  that  she  is  happy,  now,  or  as  happy 
as  she  can  be,  poor  thing,  doing  great  deeds  in  Amer 
ica,"  she  said.  And  she  turned  the  talk  back  to  civ 
ilization  and  its  danger. 

They  talked  a  good  deal  about  civilization  during 
their  last  three  days  together.  He  wanted  things, 
during  these  three  days  of  mingled  recovery  and 
farewell,  to  be  as  happy  as  possible  between  him  and 
his  friend,  for  he  knew  that  Lydia's  heart  was  heavy, 
for  him  and  not  for  civilization.  The  front  to  which 
he  was  going  was  more  real  to  her,  because  it  was 
much  nearer,  and  his  peril  was  more  real  than  during 
his  absence  in  distant  climes.  He  felt  himself  that 
the  French  front,  at  this  special  time,  would  prob 
ably  make  an  end  of  him  and,  for  the  first  time  since 
their  early  friendship,  he  knew  conjecture  as  to  his 


28o  ADRIENNE  TONER 

relation  with  Lydia;  wondered,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Mr.  Aldesey  in  New  York,  whether  Lydia  might 
have  been  in  love  with  him,  and  realized,  with  a 
curious  sense  of  anxiety  and  responsibility,  that  her 
friendship  for  him  now  was  the  closest  tie  in  her  life. 
The  war  might  to  her,  too,  mean  irreparable  loss. 
And  he  was  sorry  that  it  was  so ;  sorry  to  think  that 
the  easy,  happy  intercourse  had  this  hidden  depth  of 
latent  suffering. 

Lydia' s  feeling,  and  its  implications,  became  the 
clearer  to  him  when,  on  their  last  evening  together, 
she  said  to  him  suddenly:  "Perhaps  you'll  see  her 
over  there." 

He  could  not  pretend  not  to  know  whom  she 
meant,  nor  could  he  pretend  to  himself  not  to  see 
that  if  it  troubled  Lydia  that  he  should  be  sorry  for 
Adrienne  that  could  only  be  because  she  cared  far 
more  for  him  than  he  had  ever  guessed. 

He  said,  as  easily  as  he  could  manage  it,  for  the 
pressure  of  his  realizations  made  him  feel  a  little 
queer:  "Not  if  she's  in  America." 

"  Ah,  but  perhaps  she's  come  back  from  America," 
said  Mrs.  Aldesey.  "She's  a  great  traveller.  What 
will  you  do  with  her  if  you  do  find  her?  Bring  her 
back  to  Barney?" 

"Hardly  that,"  he  said.  "There'd  be  no  point 
in  bringing  her  back  to  Barney,  would  there?" 

"Well,  then,  what  would  you  do  with  her?" 
Mrs.  Aldesey  smiled,  as  if  with  a  return  to  their  old 
light  dealing  with  the  theme,  while,  still  in  her 
nurse's  coiffe  and  dress,  she  leaned  back  against  her 
chair. 

"What  would  she  do  with  me,  rather,  isn't  it?" 
he  asked.  And  he,  too,  tried  to  be  light. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  281 

"She'll  be  mended  then,  you  think?  Able  to  do 
things  to  people  again?" 

"I'm  not  at  all  afraid  of  her,  you  know.  She 
never  did  me  any  harm,"  he  said. 

"Because  you  were  as  strong  as  she,  you  mean. 
She  did  other  people  harm,  surely.  You  warned  me 
once  to  keep  away  from  her  unless  I  wanted  to  lose 
my  toes  and  fingers,"  Mrs.  Aldesey  still  smiled. 
"She  does  make  people  lose  things,  doesn't  she?" 

"Well,  she  makes  them  gain  things,  too.  Fortunes 
for  instance.  Perhaps  if  I  find  her,  she'll  give  me  a 
fortune." 

"But  that's  only  when  she's  ruined  you,"  she 
reminded  him. 

"And  it's  she  who's  ruined  now,"  he  felt  bound  to 
remind  her;  no  longer  lightly. 

Leaning  back  in  her  chair,  her  faded  little  face 
framed  in  white,  Mrs.  Aldesey  looked  at  once 
younger  yet  more  tired  than  he  had  ever  seen  her 
look  and  she  sat  for  a  little  while  silent ;  as  if  she  had 
forgotten  Adrienne  Toner  and  were  thinking  only 
of  their  parting.  But  all  her  gaiety  had  fallen  from 
her  as  she  said  at  last:  "I  can  be  sorry  for  her,  too; 
if  she's  really  ruined.  If  she  still  loves  him  when  he 
has  ceased  to  care  for  her.  Does  she,  do  you  think?  " 

With  the  question  he  seemed  to  see  a  fire-lit  room 
and  lovers  who  had  found  each  other  and  to  smell 
wet  roses.  Lydia  was  coming  too  near ;  too  near  the 
other  figure,  outside  the  window,  fallen  back  with 
outstretched  arms  against  the  roses.  And  again  he 
felt  himself  softly,  cautiously,  disentangle  the  sleeve, 
the  hair,  felt  himself  draw  Adrienne  away  into  the 
darkness  where  the  smell  was  now  of  wet  ivy  and 
where  he  could  see  only  the  shape  of  an  accepting 
grief. 


282  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"How  could  I  know?"  he  said.  "She  was  very 
unhappy  when  I  last  saw  her.  But  three  years  have 
passed  and  people  can  mend  in  three  years." 

"Especially  in  America,"  Mrs.  Aldesey  suggested. 
"It's  a  wonderful  place  for  mending.  Let's  hope 
she's  there.  Let's  hope  that  we  shall  never,  any  of 
us,  ever  hear  of  her  again.  That  would  be  much  the 
happiest  thing,  wouldn't  it?" 

He  was  obliged  to  say  that  it  would  certainly  be 
much  the  happiest  thing;  and  he  was  too  unhappy 
about  Lydia  to  be  able  to  feel  angry  with  her.  He 
knew  how  tired  she  must  be  when,  for  the  first  time 
in  their  long  friendship,  she  must  know  that  she  was 
not  pleasing  him,  yet  not  be  able  to  help  herself. 


CHAPTER  II 

"GooD  LORD!"  Oldmeadow  heard  himself  groaning. 

Even  as  he  took  possession  of  his  physical  suffer 
ing  he  knew  that  there  was  satisfaction  in  suffering, 
at  last,  himself.  Until  now  the  worst  part  of  war 
had  been  to  see  the  sufferings  of  others.  This  was  at 
last  the  real  thing;  but  it  was  so  mingled  with  ac 
quiescence  that  it  ceased  to  be  the  mere  raw  fact. 
"We're  all  together,  now,"  he  thought,  and  he  felt 
himself,  even  as  he  groaned,  lifted  on  a  wave  of 
beatitude. 

Until  now  he  had  not,  as  a  consciousness,  known 
anything.  There  was  a  shape  in  his  memory,  a  mere 
immense  black  blot  shot  with  fiery  lights.  It  must 
symbolize  the  moment  when  the  shell  struck  him, 
bending,  in  the  trench,  over  his  watch  and  his  calcu 
lations.  And  after  that  there  were  detached  visions, 
the  ceiling  of  a  train  where  he  had  swung  in  a  ham 
mock  bed,  looking  up;  clean  sheets,  miraculously 
clean  and  the  face  of  a  black-browed  nurse  who  re 
minded  him  of  Trixie.  The  smell  of  chloroform  was 
over  everything.  It  bound  everything  together  so 
that  days  might  have  passed  since  the  black  blot 
and  since  he  lay  here,  again  in  clean  sheets,  the 
sweet,  thick  smell  closing  round  him  and  a  raging 
thirst  in  his  throat.  He  knew  that  he  had  just  been 
carried  in  from  the  operating  room  and  he  groaned 
again  "Good  Lord,"  feeling  the  pain  snatch  as  if 
with  fangs  and  claws  at  his  thigh  and  belly,  and 
muttered,  "Water!" 

Something  sweet,  but  differently  sweet  from  the 


284  ADRIENNE  TONER 

smell,  sharp,  too,  and  insidious,  touched  his  lips  and 
opening  them  obediently,  as  a  young  bird  opens  its 
bill  to  the  parent  bird,  he  felt  a  swob  passed  round 
his  parched  mouth  and  saw  the  black-browed  nurse. 
"Not  water,  yet,  you  know,"  she  said.  "This  is 
lemon  and  glycerine  and  will  help  you  wonderfully." 

He  wanted  to  ask  something  about  Paris  and  the 
long-distance  gun  firing  on  it  every  day  and  he 
seemed  to  see  it  over  the  edge  of  the  trench,  far  away 
on  the  horizon  of  No-man's-land,  a  tiny  city  flaming 
far  into  the  sky.  But  other  words  bubbled  up  and 
he  heard  himself  crying:  "Mother!  Mother!"  and 
remembered,  stopping  himself  with  an  act  of  will, 
that  they  all  said  that  when  they  were  dying.  But 
as  he  closed  his  eyes  he  felt  her  very  near  and  knew 
that  it  would  be  sweet  to  die  and  find  her. 

A  long  time  must  have  passed.  Was  it  days  or 
only  the  time  of  daylight?  It  was  night  now  and  a 
shaded  light  shone  from  a  recess  behind  him  and 
thoughts,  visions,  memories  raced  through  his 
mind.  Nancy;  Barney;  he  would  never  see  them 
again,  then:  poor  Lydia  and  civilization.  "  Civiliza 
tion  will  see  me  out,"  he  thought  and  he  wondered 
if  they  had  taken  off  the  wings  of  the  Flying  Victory 
when  they  packed  her. 

A  rhythm  was  beating  in  his  brain.  Music  was 
it?  Something  of  Bach's?  It  gathered  words  to  it 
self  and  shaped  itself  sentence  by  sentence  into 
something  he  had  heard?  or  read?  Ah,  he  was  glad 
to  have  found  it.  "Under  the  orders  of  your  de- 
,  voted  officers  you  will  march  against  the  enemy  or 
fall  where  you  stand,  facing  the  foe.  To  those  who 
die  I  say:  You  will  not  die:  you  will  enter  living 
into  immortality,  and  God  will  receive  you  into  his 


ADRIENNE  TONER  285 

bosom."  He  seemed  to  listen  to  the  words  as  he  lay, 
quietly  smiling.  But  it  was  music  after  all  for,  as  he 
listened,  they  merged  into  the  "St.  Matthew  Passion." 
He  had  heard  it,  of  course,  with  Lydia,  at  the  Tem 
ple.  But  Lydia  did  not  really  care  very  much  for 
Bach.  She  might  care  more  for  "Litanei."  She  had 
sung  it  standing  beside  him  with  foolish  white  roses 
over  her  ears.  How  unlike  Lydia  to  wear  those 
roses.  And  was  it  Lydia  who  stood  there?  A  men 
tal  perplexity  mingled  with  the  physical  pain  and 
spoiled  his  peace.  It  was  not  Lydia's,  that  white 
face  in  the  coffin  with  wet  ivy  behind  it.  What 
suffering  was  this  that  beat  upon  his  heart?  The 
music  had  faded  all  away  and  he  saw  faces  every 
where,  dying  faces;  and  blood  and  terrible  mutila 
tions.  All  the  suffering  of  the  war,  worse,  far  worse 
than  the  mere  claws  and  fangs  that  tore  at  him. 
Dying  boys  choked  out  their  breaths  in  agonies  of 
conscious  loneliness,  yearning  for  faces  they  would 
never  see  again.  Oh,  how  many  he  had  seen  die 
like  that!  Intolerable  to  watch  them.  And  could 
one  do  nothing?  "Cigarettes.  Give  them  cigarettes, 
he  tried  to  tell  somebody.  "And  marmalade  for 
breakfast;  and  phonographs,  and  then  they  will 
enter  living  into  immortality"  —  No:  he  did  not 
mean  that.  What  did  he  mean?  He  could  catch  at 
nothing  now.  Thoughts  were  tossed  and  tumbled 
like  the  rubbish  of  wreckage  from  an  inundated 
town  on  the  deep  currents  of  his  anguish.  A  current 
that  raced  and  seethed  and  carried  him  away.  He 
saw  it.  Its  breathless  speed  was  like  the  fever  in  his 
blood.  If  it  went  faster  he  would  lose  his  breath. 
Church-bells  ringing  on  the  banks  lost  theirs  as  he 
sped  past  so  swiftly  and  made  a  trail  of  whining 


286  ADRIENNE  TONER 

sound.  —  Effie!  Effie!  It  was  poor  little  Effie, 
drowning.  He  saw  her  wild,  small  face,  battling. 
Bubbles  boiled  up  about  his  cry. 

Suddenly  the  torrent  was  stilled.  Without  com 
motion,  without  tumult,  it  was  stilled.  There  was 
a  dam  somewhere;  it  had  stopped  racing;  he  could 
get  his  breath.  Still  and  slow;  oh!  it  was  delicious 
to  feel  that  quiet  hand  on  his  forehead ;  his  mother's 
hand,  and  to  know  that  Effie  was  safe.  He  lay  with 
closed  eyes  and  saw  a  smooth  waterfall  sliding  and 
curving  with  green  grey  depths  into  the  lower 
currents  of  the  stream.  He  remembered  the  stream 
well,  now;  one  of  his  beloved  French  rivers;  one  of 
the  smaller,  sylvan  rivers,  too  small  for  majesty; 
with  silver  poplars  spaced  against  the  sky  on  either 
bank  and  a  small  town,  white  and  pink  and  pearly- 
grey,  clear  on  the  horizon.  Tranquil  sails  were 
above  him  and  the  bells  from  the  distant  church- 
tower  floated  to  him  across  the  fields.  Soundlessly, 
slowly,  he  felt  himself  borne  into  oblivion. 

The  black-browed  nurse  was  tending  him  next 
morning.  "You  are  better,"  she  said,  smiling  at 
him.  "You  slept  all  night.  No;  it's  a  shame,  but 
you  mayn't  have  water  yet."  She  put  the  lemon 
and  glycerine  to  his  lips.  "The  pain  is  easier,  isn't 
it?" 

He  said  it  was.  He  felt  that  he  must  not  stir  an 
inch  so  as  to  keep  it  easier,  but  he  could  not  have 
stirred  had  he  wanted  to,  for  he  was  all  tightly 
swathed  and  bandaged.  He  remembered  something 
he  wanted  specially  to  ask:  "Paris?  They  haven't 
got  it  yet?" 

"They'll  never  get  it!"  she  smiled  proudly. 
"Everything  is  going  splendidly." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  287 

The  English  surgeon  was  such  a  nice  fellow.  He 
had  spectacles  on  a  square- tipped  nose  and  a  square, 
chubby  face;  yet  his  hair  was  nearly  white.  Old- 
meadow  remembered,  as  if  of  days  before  the  flood, 
that  his  name  was  a  distinguished  one.  Perhaps  it 
was  morphia  they  gave  him,  after  his  wound  was 
dressed,  or  perhaps  he  fainted.  The  day  passed  in  a 
hot  and  broken  stupor  and  at  night  the  tides  of 
fever  rose  again  and  carried  him  away.  But,  again, 
before  he  had  lost  his  breath,  before  he  had  quite 
gone  down  into  delirium,  the  quiet  hand  came  and 
sent  him,  under  sails,  to  sleep. 

Next  day  Oldmeadow  knew,  from  the  way  the 
surgeon  looked  at  him,  that  his  case  was  grave.  His 
face  was  grim  as  he  bent  over  the  dressing  and  he 
hurt  horribly.  They  told  him,  when  it  was  over,  that 
he  had  been  very  brave,  and,  like  a  child,  he  was 
pleased  that  they  should  tell  him  so.  But  the  pain 
was  worse  all  day  and  the  sense  of  the  submerging 
fever  imminent,  and  he  lay  with  closed  eyes  and 
longed  for  the  night  that  brought  the  hand.  Hours, 
long  hours  passed  before  it  came.  Hours  of  sun 
light  when,  behind  his  eyelids,  he  saw  red,  and 
hours  of  twilight  when  he  saw  mauve.  Then,  for  a 
little  while,  it  was  a  soft,  dense  grey  he  saw,  like  a 
bat's  wing,  and  then  the  small  light  shone  across  his 
bed ;  he  knew  that  the  night  had  come,  and  felt,  at 
last,  the  hand  fall  softly  on  his  head. 

He  lay  for  some  time  feeling  the  desired  peace 
flow  into  him  and  then,  through  its  satisfaction, 
another  desire  pushed  up  into  his  consciousness  and 
he  remembered  that,  more  than  about  Paris,  he  had 
wanted  to  speak  to  the  nurse  about  what  she  did 
for  him  and  thank  her. 


288  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"It's  you  who  make  me  sleep,  isn't  it,"  he  said, 
lying  with  closed  eyes  under  the  soft  yet  insistent 
pressure.  "I've  never  thanked  you." 

She  did  not  reply.  She  did  not  want  him  to  talk. 
But  he  still  wanted  to. 

"I  couldn't  thank  you  last  night,"  he  said,  "I 
can't  keep  hold  of  my  thoughts.  And  when  morning 
comes  I  seem  to  have  forgotten  everything  about 
the  night.  You  are  the  nurse  who  takes  care  of  me 
in  the  daytime,  too,  aren't  you?" 

Again,  for  a  moment,  there  was  no  reply;  and 
then  a  voice  came.  "No;  I  am  the  night  nurse.  Go 
to  sleep  now." 

It  was  a  voice  gentle,  cold  and  soft,  like  snow.  It 
was  not  an  English  voice  and  he  had  heard  it  be 
fore.  Where  had  he  heard  it?  Rooks  were  cawing 
and  he  saw  a  blue  ribbon  rolling,  rolling  out  across 
a  spring-tide  landscape.  This  voice  was  not  like  a 
blue  ribbon;  it  was  like  snow.  Yet,  when  he  turned 
his  head  under  her  hand,  he  looked  round  at  Ad- 
rienne  Toner. 

The  first  feeling  that  came  uppermost  in  the  med 
ley  that  filled  him  at  the  sight  of  her  was  one  of 
amused  vexation.  It  was  as  if  he  went  back  to  his 
beginnings  with  her,  back  to  the  rooks  and  the  blue 
ribbon.  "  At  it  again ! "  was  what  he  said  to  himself, 
and  what  he  said  aloud,  absurdly,  was:  "Oh,  come, 
now;" 

She  did  not  lift  her  hand,  but  there  was  trouble 
on  her  face  as  she  looked  back  at  him.  "  I  hoped  you 
wouldn't  see  me,  Mr.  Oldmeadow,"  she  said. 

He  was  reminded  of  Bacchus  and  the  laying  on  of 
hands ;  but  a  classical  analogy,  even  more  ridiculous, 
came  to  him  with  her  words.  ".Like  Cupid  and 


ADRIENNE  TONER  289 

Psyche,"  he  said.  "The  other  way  round.  It's  I 
who  mustn't  look." 

The  trouble  on  her  face  became  more  marked 
and  he  saw  that  she  imagined  him  to  be  delirious. 
He  was  not  quite  himself,  certainly,  or  he  would  not 
have  greeted  Adrienne  Toner  thus,  and  he  made  an 
effort  to  be  more  decorous  and  rational  as  he  said, 
"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again.  Safe  and  sound: 
you  know." 

She  had  always  had  a  singular  little  face,  but  it 
had  never  looked  so  singular  as  now,  seen  from  be 
low  with  shadows  from  the  light  behind  cast  so 
oddly  over  it.  The  end  of  her  nose  jutted  from  a 
blue  shadow  and  her  eyes  lay  in  deep  hollows  of 
blue.  All  that  he  was  sure  of  in  her  expression  was 
the  gravity  with  which  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
humour  him.  "We  want  you  to  be  safe  and  sound, 
too.  Please  shut  your  eyes  and  go  to  sleep." 

"All  right;  all  right,  Psyche,"  he  murmured,  and 
he  knew  it  wasn't  quite  what  he  intended  to  say, 
yet  in  his  flippancy  he  was  taking  refuge  from  some 
thing;  from  the  flood  of  suffering  that  had  broken 
over  him  the  other  night  after  he  had  seen  that  dead 
face  with  white  roses  over  its  ears.  This  queer  face, 
half  dissolved  in  blue  and  yellow,  was  not  dead  and 
the  white  coiffe  came  closely  down  about  it.  If  he 
obeyed  her  he  knew  that  she  would  keep  the  other 
faces  away  and  he  closed  his  eyes  obediently  and 
lay  very  still,  seeing  himself  again  as  the  good  little 
boy  being  praised.  This  was  Psyche;  not  Ariane. 
"Ariane  ma  sceur,"  he  murmured.  It  was  Ariane 
who  had  the  white  roses  —  or  was  it  wet  ivy?  and 
after  her  face  pressed  all  the  other  dying  faces. 
"  You'll  keep  them  away,  won't  you?"  he  murmured, 


290  ADRIENNE  TONER 

and  he  heard  her  say:  "Yes;  I'll  keep  them  quite 
away,"  and,  softly,  a  curtain  of  sleep  fell  before  his 
eyes  crossed  by  a  thin  drift  of  mythological  figures. 

"I  thought  it  was  you  who  sent  me  to  sleep,"  he 
said  to  the  English  nurse  next  day.  He  could 
hardly,  in  the  morning  light,  believe  it  was  not  a 
dream. 

She  smiled  with  an  air  of  vicarious  pride.  "No 
indeed.  I  can't  send  people  to  sleep.  It's  our  won 
derful  Mrs.  Chadwick.  She  does  a  good  deal  more 
than  put  people  to  sleep.  She  cures  people  —  oh,  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  myself,  till  I  saw  it  —  who 
are  at  death's  door.  It's  lucky  for  you  and  the  others 
that  we've  got  her  here  for  a  little  while." 

"Where's  here?"  he  asked  after  a  moment. 

"Here's  Boulogne.   Didn't  you  know?" 

"I  thought  I  heard  the  sea  sometimes.  It's  for 
cases  too  bad,  then,  to  be  taken  home.  Get  her  here 
from  where?" 

"From  her  hospital  in  the  firing-line.  Now  that 
we're  advancing  at  the  front  everything  there  is 
changed  and  she  could  come  away  for  a  little.  Sir 
Kenneth's  been  begging  her  to  come  ever  since  he 
saw  her.  He  knew  she  would  work  marvels  here, 
too."  The  nice  young  nurse  was  exuberant  in  her 
darkness  and  rosiness  with  a  Jewish  streak  of  fer 
vour  in  her  lips  and  eyes.  "  It's  a  sort  of  rest  for  her," 
she  added.  "She's  been  badly  wounded  once.  You 
can  just  see  the  scar,  under  her  cap,  on  her  forehead. 
And  she  nearly  died  of  fever  out  in  Salonika.  She 
had  a  travelling  ambulance  there  before  she  came  to 
France." 

"It  must  be  very  restful  for  her,"  Oldmeadow 
remarked  with  a  touch  of  his  grim  mirth,  "if  she 


ADRIENNE  TONER  291 

has  to  sit  up  putting  all  your  bad  cases  to  sleep. 
Why  haven't  I  heard  of  her  and  her  hospital?" 

"  It's  not  run  in  her  name.  It's  an  American  hos 
pital  —  she  is  American  —  called  after  her  mother, 
I  believe.  The  Pearl  Ambulance  is  what  it's  called 
and  everybody  here  knows  about  it ;  all  of  us  nurses 
and  doctors,  I  mean.  Her  organizing  power  is  as 
wonderful  as  her  cures ;  her  influence  over  her  staff. 
They  all  worship  the  ground  she  walks  on." 

"Pearl,  Pearl  Toner,"  Oldmeadow  was  saying 
to  himself.  How  complete,  how  perfect  it  was.  And 
the  nurse  went  on,  delighted,  evidently,  to  talk  of 
an  idol,  and  rather  as  if  she  were  speaking  of  a 
special  cure  they  had  installed,  a  sort  of  Carrel 
treatment  not  to  be  found  anywhere  else:  ''Every 
thing's  been  different  since  she  came.  It's  almost 
miraculous  to  see  what  the  mere  touch  of  her  hand 
can  do.  Matron  says  she  wouldn't  be  surprised  if 
it  turned  out  she  was  a  sort  of  nun  and  wore  a  hair 
shirt  under  her  dress.  Whatever  she  is,  it  makes 
one  feel  better  and  stronger  just  to  see  her  and  one 
would  do  anything  for  her  just  to  have  her  smile  at 
one.  She  has  the  most  heavenly  smile." 

It  was  all  very  familiar. 

"Ah,  you  haven't  abandoned  me  after  all,  though 
I  have  found  you  out,"  he  said  to  Adrienne  Toner 
that  night. 

He  was  able  at  last  to  see  her  clearly  as  she  came 
in,  so  softly  that  it  was  like  a  dream  sliding  into 
one's  sleep.  She  was  like  a  dream  in  her  nurse's 
dress  which,  though  so  familiar  on  other  women, 
seemed  to  isolate  and  make  her  strange.  Her  face 
was  smaller  than  he  had  remembered  it  and  had  the 
curious  look,  docile  yet  stubborn,  that  one  sees  on 


292  ADRIENNE  TONER 

the  faces  of  dumb-mutes.  She  might  have  looked 
like  that  had  she  been  deafened  by  the  sound  of  so 
many  bursting  shells  and  lost  the  faculty  of  speech 
through  doing  much  and  saying  nothing  among  scenes 
of  horror.  But  she  spoke  to  him,  after  all,  as  natu 
rally  as  he  spoke  to  her,  saying,  though  with  no 
touch  of  his  lightness:  "  You  mustn't  talk,  you  know, 
if  I  come  to  make  you  sleep.  Sir  Kenneth  wants 
sleep  for  you  more  than  anything  else." 

"I  promise  you  to  be  good,"  said  Oldmeadow. 
"  But  I'm  really  better,  aren't  I?  and  can  talk  a  little 
first." 

"You  are  really  better.  But  it  will  take  a  long 
time.  A  great  deal  of  sleeping." 

"No  one  knew  what  had  become  of  you,"  said 
Oldmeadow,  and  he  remembered  that  he  ought  to 
be  sorry  that  Adrienne  Toner  had  not  been  killed. 

She  hesitated,  and  then  sat  down  beside  him.  He 
thought  that  she  had  been  going  to  ask  him  some 
thing  and  then  checked  herself.  "I  can't  let  you 
talk,"  she  said,  and  in  her  voice  he  heard  the  new 
authority;  an  authority  gained  by  long  submission 
to  discipline. 

"Another  night,  then.  We  must  talk  another 
night,"  he  murmured,  closing  his  eyes,  for  he  knew 
that  he  must  not  disobey  her.  All  the  same  it  was 
absurd  that  Adrienne  Toner  should  be  doing  this  for 
him ;  absurd  but  heavenly  to  feel  her  hand  fall  softly, 
like  a  warm,  light  bird,  and  brood  upon  his  forehead. 


CHAPTER  III  . 

THEY  never  spoke  of  Coldbrooks,  nor  of  Barney, 
nor  of  Palgrave ;  not  once.  Not  once  during  all  those 
nights  that  she  sat  beside  him  and  made  him  sleep. 

He  had  heard  from  Coldbrooks,  of  course;  Otters 
came  often  now.  And  the  dark  young  nurse  had 
written  for  him  since  he  could  not  yet  write  for  him 
self.  He  had  said  no  word  of  seeing  Adrienne.  Nor 
had  he  let  them  know  how  near  to  death  he  had 
been  and,  perhaps,  still  was.  He  would  have  liked 
to  have  seen  Lydia  and  Nancy  if  he  were  to  die; 
but  most  of  all  he  wanted  to  be  sure  of  not  losing 
Adrienne.  And  he  knew  that  were  he  to  tell  them, 
were  they  to  come,  Adrienne  would  go. 

She  never  spoke  to  him  at  all,  he  remembered  — 
as  getting  stronger  with  every  day,  he  pieced  his 
memories  of  these  nights  together  —  unless  he  spoke 
to  her;  and  she  never  smiled.  And  it  came  upon  him 
one  morning  after  he  had  read  letters  that  brought 
so  near  the  world  from  which  she  was  now  shut  out, 
that  she  had,  perhaps,  never  forgiven  him.  After 
all,  though  he  could  not  see  that  he  had  been  wrong, 
she  had  everything  to  forgive  him  and  the  thought 
made  him  restless.  That  night,  for  the  first  time, 
she  volunteered  a  remark.  His  temperature  had 
gone  up  a  little.  He  must  be  very  quiet  and  go  to 
sleep  directly. 

"Yes;  I  know,"  he  said.  "It's  because  of  you. 
Things  I  want  to  say.  I'm  really  so  much  better. 
We  can't  go  on  like  this,  can  we,"  he  said,  looking 


294  ADRIENNE  TONER 

up  at  her  as  she  sat  beside  him.  "Why,  you  might 
slip  out  of  my  life  any  day,  and  I  might  never  hear 
of  you  again." 

She  sat  looking  down  at  him,  a  little  askance, 
though  gentle  still,  if  gentle  was  the  word  for  her 
changed  face.  "That's  what  I  mean  to  do,"  she 
said. 

"Oh,  but — "  Oldmeadow  actually,  in  his  alarm 
and  resentment,  struggled  up  on  an  elbow  -  "that 
won't  do.  I  want  to  see  you,  really  see  you,  now  that 
I'm  myself  again.  I  want  to  talk  with  you  —  now 
that  I  can  talk  coherently.  I  want  to  ask  you ;  well, 
I  won't  ask  it  now."  She  had  put  out  her  hand,  her 
small,  potent  hand,  and  quietly  pressed  him  back, 
and  down  upon  his  pillow  while  her  face  took  on  its 
look  of  almost  stern  authority.  "I'll  be  good.  But 
promise  me  you'll  not  go  without  telling  me.  And 
haven't  you  questions  to  ask,  too?" 

Her  face  kept  its  severity,  but,  as  he  found  this 
last  appeal,  her  eyes  widened,  darkened,  looked,  for 
a  moment,  almost  frightened. 

"I  know  that  Barney  is  safe,"  she  said.  "I  have 
nothing  to  ask." 

"Well;  no;  I  see."  He  felt  that  he  had  been 
guilty  of  a  blunder  and  it  made  him  fretful.  "For 
me,  then.  Not  for  you.  Promise  me.  I  won't  be 
good  unless  you  promise  me.  You  can't  go  off  and 
leave  me  like  that." 

With  eyes  still  dilated,  she  contemplated  this  re 
bellion. 

"You  must  promise  me  something,  then,"  she 
said  after  a  moment. 

He  felt  proud,  delighted,  as  if  he  had  gained  a 
victory  over  her. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  295 

"Done.  If  it's  not  too  hard.  What  is  it?" 

"You  won't  write  to  anybody.  You  won't  tell 
anybody  that  you've  seen  me.  Only  Lady  Lumley 
knows  that  I  am  here.  And  she  has  promised  not 
to  tell.  Probably,  soon,  I  shall  have  left  France  for 
ever." 

"I  won't  tell.  I  won't  write.  I  can  keep  secrets 
as  well  as  Lady  Lumley.  She  does  keep  them,  you 
know.  So  it's  a  compact." 

"Yes.  It's  a  compact.  You'll  never  tell  them; 
and  I  won't  go  without  letting  you  know.  I  promise. 
Now  go  to  sleep." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  forehead,  but,  for  a  little 
while,  he  heard  her  breathing  deeply  and  quickly 
and  the  sense  of  his  blundering  stayed  with  him  so 
that  sleep  was  longer  in  coming. 

All  the  same  he  was  much  better  next  day.  He 
was  able  to  sit  up  and  had  the  glory  and  excitement 
of  a  chop  for  his  midday  dinner.  And  when  the 
pleasant  hour  of  tea  arrived  it  was  Adrienne  herself 
who  came  in  carrying  the  little  tray. 

He  had  not  seen  her  in  daylight  before  and  his 
first  feeling  was  one  of  alarm,  for,  if  she  were  afoot 
like  this,  in  daylight,  must  it  not  mean  that  she  was 
soon  to  leave  the  hospital?  He  felt  shy  of  her,  too, 
for,  altered  as  she  was  by  night,  the  day  showed  her 
as  far  more  altered.  Whether  she  seemed  much 
older  or  much  younger  he  could  not  have  said.  The 
coiffe,  covering  her  forehead,  and  bound  under  her 
chin  in  a  way  peculiar  to  her,  left  only,  as  it  were, 
the  means  of  expression  visible. 

She  sat  down  by  the  window  and  looked  out, 
glancing  round  from  time  to  time  as  he  drank  his 
tea  and  it  was  she  who  found  the  calm  little  sen- 


296  ADRIENNE  TONER 

tences,  about  the  latest  news  from  the  front,  the 
crashing  of  Bulgaria,  that  carried  them  on  until  he 
had  finished.  When  he  had  pushed  down  his  tray 
she  turned  her  chair  and  faced  him,  folding  her 
hands  together  on  her  white  apron,  and  she  said, 
and  he  knew  that  she  had  come  to  say  it,  "What 
was  it  you  wanted  to  ask  me?" 

He  had  had,  while  she  sat  at  the  window,  her  pro 
file  with  the  jutting  nose,  and  her  face,  as  it  turned 
upon  him  now,  made  him  think  suddenly  of  a  sea 
gull.  Questing,  lonely,  with  vigilant  eyes,  it  seemed 
to  have  great  spaces  before  it ;  to  be  flying  forth  into 
empty  spaces  and  to  an  unseen  goal. 

"Are  you  going  away,  then?"  He  had  not  dared, 
somehow,  to  ask  her  before.  He  felt  now  that  he 
could  not  talk  until  he  knew. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said.  "  But  I  shall  be  going  soon. 
The  hospital  is  emptying  and  my  nights  on  duty 
are  very  short.  I  have,  really,  only  you  and  two 
others  to  take  care  of.  That's  why  I  am  up  so  early 
to-day.  And  you  are  so  much  better  that  we  can 
have  a  little  talk;  if  you  have  anything  to  ask  me." 

"It's  this,  of  course,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "It 
seems  to  me  you  ought  to  dislike  me.  I  misunder 
stood  you  in  many  ways.  And  now  I  owe  you  my 
life.  Before  we  part  I  want  to  thank  you  and  to  ask 
you  to  forgive  me." 

Her  eyes,  seen  in  daylight,  were  of  the  colour  of 
distance,  of  arctic  distances.  That  had  always  been 
their  colour,  though  he  had  never  before  identified 
it. 

"  But  there  is  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  she  said. 
"I  am  here  to  take  care  of  people." 

"Even  people  who   misunderstood   you.     Even 


ADRIENNE  TONER  297 

people  you  dislike.  I  know."  He  flushed,  feeling 
that  he  had  been  duly  snubbed.  "But  though  you 
take  care  of  everyone,  anyone  may  thank  you,  too, 
mayn't  they?" 

"I  don't  dislike  you,  Mr.  Oldmeadow,"  she  said 
after  a  moment.  "And  you  didn't  misunderstand 
me." 

"Oh,"  he  murmured,  more  abashed  than  before. 
"I  think  so.  Not,  perhaps,  what  you  did;  but  what 
you  were.  I  didn't  see  you  as  you  really  were.  That's 
what  I  mean." 

The  perplexity,  which  had  grown,  even,  to 
amazement,  had  left  her  eyes  and  she  was  intently 
looking  at  him.  "There  is  nothing  for  you  to  be 
sorry  for,"  she  said.  "Nothing  for  me  to  forgive. 
You  were  always  right." 

"Always  right?  I  can't  take  that,  you  know," 
said  Oldmeadow,  deeply  discomposed.  "You  were 
blind,  of  course,  and  more  sure  of  yourself  than  any 
of  us  can  safely  afford  to  be;  but  I  wasn't  always 
right." , 

"Always.  Always,"  she  repeated.  "I  was  blinder 
than  you  knew.  I  was  more  sure  of  myself." 

He  lay  looking  at  her  and  she  looked  back  at  him, 
but  with  a  look  that  invited  neither  argument  no* 
protest.  It  remained  remote  and  vigilant.  She 
might  have  been  the  seagull  looking  down  and  not 
ing,  as  she  flew  onward,  that  the  small  figure  on  the 
beach  so  far  below  had  ceased  to  be  that  of  an  as 
sailant  in  its  attitude.  How  remote  she  was,  white, 
strange,  fleeting  creature!  How  near  she  had  been 
once!  The  memory  of  how  near  rushed  over  his 
mind.  He  had,  despite  the  delirious  visions  of  her 
stricken  face,  hardly  thought  at  all,  since  really  see- 


298  ADRIENNE  TONER 

ing  her  again,  of  that  last  time.  Everything  had 
fitted  itself  on,  rather,  to  his  earliest  memories  of  her, 
tinged  all  of  them,  it  was  true,  with  a  deeper  mean 
ing,  but  not  till  this  moment  consciously  admitting 
it.  It  rushed  in  now,  poignant  with  the  recovered 
smell  of  wet,  dark  ivy,  the  recovered  sound  of  her 
stifled  sobs  as  she  had  stumbled,  broken,  beside  him 
in  the  rain.  And  with  the  memory  came  the  desire 
that  she  should  again  be  near. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  are  you  going  to  do? 
You  said  you  might  be  leaving  France  for  ever. 
Shall  you  go  back  to  America?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  Not  for  a  long  time,"  she 
answered.  "There  will  be  things  to  do  over  here, 
out  of  France,  for  a  great  many  years  I  imagine." 

He  hesitated,  then  took  a  roundabout  way.  "And 
when  I  get  home,  if,  owing  to  you,  I  ever  get  there, 
may  I  not  tell  them  that  you're  safe  and  sound? 
It  would  be  happier  for  them  to  know  that,  wouldn't 
it?" 

Her  vigilance  still  dwelt  upon  him  as  though  she 
suspected  in  this  sudden  change  of  subject  some 
craft  of  approach,  but  she  answered  quietly: 

"No;  I  think  it  will  be  happier  for  them  to  forget 
me.  They  will  be  told  if  I  die.  I  have  arranged  for 
that." 

"They  can't  very  well  forget  you,"  said  Old- 
meadow  after  a  moment.  "They  must  always  won 
der." 

"I  know."  She  glanced  away  and  trouble  came 
into  her  face.  "I  know.  But  as  much  as  possible. 
You  must  not  make  me  real  again  by  telling  them. 
You  have  promised.  You  care  for  them.  You  know 
what  I  mean." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  299 

"Yes;  I've  promised.  And  I  see  what  you  mean. 
But,"  said  Oldmeadow  suddenly,  and  this,  of 
course,  was  what  he  had  been  coming  to.  "I  don't 
want  to  forget.  I  want  you  to  stay  real.  You  must 
let  me  know  what  becomes  of  you,  always,  please." 

Astonishment,  now,  effaced  her  trouble.  "You? 
Why?"  she  asked. 

He  smiled  a  little.  "Well,  because,  if  you'll  let 
me  say  it,  I'm  fond  of  you.  I  feel  responsible  for 
you.  I've  been  too  deeply  in  your  life,  you've  been 
too  deeply  in  mine,  for  us  to  disappear  from  each 
other.  Don't  you  remember,"  he  said,  and  he 
found  it  with  a  sense  of  achievement,  ridiculous  as 
it  might  sound,  "how  I  held  the  tea-pot  for  you? 
That's  what  I  mean.  You  must  let  me  go  on  hold 
ing  it." 

But  she  could  feel  no  amusement.  She  was 
pressing  her  hands  tightly  together  in  her  lap,  her 
eyes  were  wide  and  her  astonishment,  he  seemed 
to  see,  almost  brought  tears  to  them.  "Fond? 
You?"  she  said.  "Of  me?  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Oldmeadow, 
I  can't  believe  that.  You  are  sorry,  I  know.  You 
are  very  sorry.  But  you  can't  be  fond." 

"And  why  not?"  said  Oldmeadow,  and  he 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow  the  more  directly  to 
challenge  her.  "Why  shouldn't  I  be  fond  of  you, 
pray?  You  must  swallow  it,  for  it's  the  truth,  and 
I've  a  right  to  my  own  feelings,  I  hope." 

She  put  aside  the  playfulness  in  which  his  grim 
earnest  veiled  itself.  "Because  you  saw.  Because 
you  know.  All  about  me.  From  the  first." 

"Well?"  he  questioned  after  a  moment,  still 
raised  on  his  elbow  but  now  with  the  grimness  un 
alloyed.  "What  of  it?" 


300  ADR1ENNE  TONER 

"  You  remember  what  I  was.  You  remember  what 
you  saw.  You  would  have  saved  them  from  me  if 
you  could;  and  you  couldn't.  How  can  you  be  fond 
of  a  person  who  has  ruined  all  their  lives?" 

"Upon  my  soul,"  said  Oldmeadow  laughing,  his 
eyes  on  hers,  "you  talk  as  though  you'd  been  a 
Lucrezia  Borgia!  What  were  you  worse  than  an 
exalted,  stubborn,  rather  conceited  girl?  Things 
went  wrong,  I  know,  and  partly  because  of  me. 
But  it  wasn't  all  your  fault,  I'll  swear  it.  And  if  it 
was,  it  was  your  mistake;  not  your  crime." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  said  Adrienne,  and  the  com 
pulsion  of  his  feeling  had  brought  a  note  of  anguish 
to  her  voice.  "It  wasn't  that.  It  was  worse  than 
that.  Don't  forget.  Don't  think  you  are  fond  of 
me  because  I  can  make  you  sleep.  It's  always  been 
so;  I  see  it  now  —  the  power  I've  had  over  people; 
the  horrible  power.  For  power  is  horrible  unless  one 
is  good;  unless  one  is  using  it  for  goodness." 

"Well,  so  you  were,"  Oldmeadow  muttered,  fall 
ing  back  on  his  pillow,  her  vehemence,  her  strange 
passion,  almost  daunting  him.  "It's  not  because 
you  make  me  go  to  sleep  that  I'm  fond  of  you. 
What  utter  rubbish!" 

"It  is!  it  is!"  she  repeated.  "I've  seen  it  happen 
too  often.  It  always  happens.  It  binds  people  to  me. 
It  makes  them  cling  to  me  as  if  I  could  give  them 
life.  It  makes  them  believe  me  to  be  a  sort  of  saint ! " 

"Well,  if  you  can  help  them  with  it?  You  have 
helped  them.  The  war's  your  great  chance  in  that, 
you'll  admit.  No  one  can  accuse  you  of  trying  to 
get  power  over  people  now." 

"  Perhaps  not.  I'm  not  thinking  of  what  I  may  be 
accused  of,  but  of  what  happens." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  301 

"It  doesn't  happen  with  me.    I  was  fond  of  you 
-  well,  we  won't  go  back  to  that.  And  you  did  use 
it  for  goodness.    Power  came  by  the  way  and  you 
took  it.   Of  course." 

11 1  thought  I  was  using  it  for  goodness.  I  thought 
I  was  good.  That  was  the  foundation  of  everything. 
We  must  go  back,  Mr.  Oldmeadow.  You  don't  see 
as  I  thought  you  did.  You  don't  understand.  I 
didn't  mean  to  set  myself  up  above  other  people. 
I  thought  they  were  good,  too.  I  was  happy  in  my 
goodness,  and  when  they  weren't  happy  it  seemed 
to  me  they  missed  something  I  had  and  that  it  was 
a  mistake  that  I  could  set  right  for  them.  I'm  going 
back  to  the  very  beginning.  Long  before  you  ever 
knew  me.  Everything  fell  into  my  hand.  I  loved 
people,  or  thought  I  did,  and  if  they  didn't  love  me 
I  thought  it  their  mistake.  That  was  the  way  it 
looked  to  me,  for  my  whole  life  long,  until  you  came. 
I  couldn't  understand  at  first,  when  you  came.  I 
couldn't  see  what  you  thought.  I  believed  that  I 
could  make  you  love  me,  too,  and  when  I  saw,  for 
you  made  it  plain,  that  you  disliked  me,  it  seemed 
to  me  worse  than  mistake.  I  thought  that  you  must 
be  against  goodness;  dangerous;  the  way  you 
pushed  me  back  —  back  —  and  showed  me  always 
something  I  had  not  thought  I  meant  at  the  bottom 
of  everything  I  did.  I  felt  that  I  wanted  to  turn 
away  from  you  and  to  turn  people  who  loved  me 
away  from  you,  lest  you  should  infect  them.  And 
all  the  while,  all  the  while  I  was  trying  to  escape  - 
the  truth  that  you  saw  and  that  I  didn't."  She 
stopped  for  a  moment  while,  sunken  on  his  pillows, 
Oldmeadow  stared  at  her.  Her  breath  seemed  to 
fail  her,  and  she  leaned  forward  and  put  her  elbows 


302  ADRIENNE  TONER 

on  her  knees  and  bent  her  forehead  on  her  joined 
hands.  "It  came  at  last.  You  remember  how  it 
came,"  she  said,  and  the  passion  of  protest  had 
fallen  from  her  voice.  She  spoke  with  difficulty. 
"Partly  through  you,  and,  partly,  through  my  fail 
ure;  I  had  never  failed  before.  My  failure  with 
Barney.  My  failure  to  keep  him  and  to  get  him 
back.  I  couldn't  believe  it  at  first.  I  struggled  and 
struggled.  You  saw  me.  Everything  turned  against 
me.  It  was  as  if  the  world  had  changed  its  shape 
and  colour  when  I  struggled  against  it.  Everything 
went  down.  And  when  I  felt  I  wasn't  loved,  when 
I  felt  myself  going  down,  with  all  the  rest,  I  became 
bad.  Bad,  bad,"  she  repeated,  and  her  voice,  heavy 
with  its  slow  reiteration,  was  like  a  clenched  hand  of 
penitence  beating  on  a  breast:  "really  bad  at  last, 
for  I  had  not  known  before  what  I  was  and  the 
truth  was  there,  staring  me  in  the  face.  I  did  dread 
ful  things,  then.  Mean  things;  cruel,  hateful  things, 
shutting  my  eyes,  stopping  my  ears,  so  that  I  should 
not  see  what  I  was  doing.  I  ran  about  and  crouched 
and  hid  —  from  myself;  do  you  follow  my  meaning? 
-  from  God.  And  then  at  last,  when  I  was  stripped 
bare,  I  had  to  look  at  Him." 

She  raised  herself  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 
Her  voice  had  trembled  more  and  more  with  the 
intensity  of  the  feeling  that  upheld  her  and  she  put 
her  handkerchief  to  her  lips  and  pressed  it  to  them, 
looking  across  at  him.  And,  sunken  on  his  pillows, 
Oldmeadow  looked  back  at  her,  motionless  and  si 
lent. 

Was  it  sympathy,  pity  or  tenderness  that  almost 
overwhelmed  him  as  he  gazed  at  her?  He  could  not 
have  said,  though  knowing  that  the  unity  that  was 


ADRIENNE  TONER  303 

in  them  both,  the  share  of  the  eternal  that  upheld 
their  lives,  flowed  out  from  his  eyes  into  hers  as  he 
looked  and  from  hers  to  his.  They  were  near  at  last ; 
near  as  it  is  rarely  given  to  human  beings  to  ex 
perience  nearness,  and  the  awe  of  such  a  partaking 
was  perhaps  the  ground  of  all  he  felt. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  and  a  long  time  had  passed, 
"I  was  mistaken." 

She  did  not  answer  him.  Perhaps  she  did  not 
understand. 

"  I  never  knew  you  were  a  person  who  could  come 
to  the  truth  like  that,"  he  said. 

Still  holding  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips,  she 
slightly  shook  her  head. 

"Even  you  never  thought  that  I  was  bad." 

"I  thought  everybody  was  bad,"  said  Old- 
meadow,  "until  they  came  to  know  that  goodness 
doesn't  lie  in  themselves.  The  reason  you  angered 
me  so  was  that  you  didn't  see  you  were  like  the  rest 
of  us.  And  only  people  capable  of  great  goodness 
can  know  such  an  agony  of  self -recognition." 

"No,"  she  repeated.  "Everyone  is  not  bad  like 
me.  You  know  that's  not  true.  You  know  that 
some  people,  people  you  love  —  are  not  like  that. 
They  need  no  agony  of  recognition,  for  nothing 
could  ever  make  them  mean  and  cruel." 

He  thought  for  a  moment.  "That's  because  you 
expected  so  much  more  of  yourself;  because  you'd 
believed  so  much  more,  and  were,  of  course,  more 
wrong.  Your  crash  was  so  much  greater  because 
your  spiritual  pride  was  so  great.  And  I  thought 
you  were  a  person  a  crash  would  do  for;  that  there'd 
be  nothing  left  of  you  if  you  came  a  crash.  That 
was  my  mistake;  for  see  what  there  is  left." 


304  ADRIENNE  TONER 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  His  words  seemed  to  press 
her  too  far.  "You  are  kind,"  she  said  in  a  hurried 
voice.  "I  understand.  You  are  so  sorry.  I've 
talked  and  talked.  It's  very  thoughtless  of  me.  I 
must  go  now." 

She  came  and  took  the  tray,  but  he  put  his  hand 
on  her  arm,  detaining  her.  "You'll  own  you're  not 
bad  now?  You'll  own  there's  something  real  for  me 
to  be  fond  of?  Wait.  I  want  you  to  acknowledge  it, 
to  accept  it  —  my  fondness.  Don't  try  to  run 
away." 

She  stood  above  him,  holding  the  tray,  while  he 
kept  his  hold  on  her  arm.  "All  I  need  to  know," 
she  said,  after  a  moment,  and  she  did  not  look  at 
him,  "is  that  no  one  is  ever  safe  —  unless  they  al 
ways  remember." 

"That's  it,  of  course,"  said  Oldmeadow  gravely, 
"and  that  you  must  die  to  live;  and  you  did  die. 
But  you  live  now,  really,  and  life  comes  through  you 
again.  Your  gift,  you  know,  of  which  you  were  so 
much  afraid  just  now,  lest  it  had  enveigled  me. 
Don't  you  see  it?  How  can  I  put  it  for  you?  You 
had  a  sort  of  wholeness  before.  There  must  be 
wholeness  of  a  sort  if  life  is  to  come  through;  har 
mony  of  a  sort,  and  faith.  It  wasn't  an  illusion 
even  then.  When  you  were  shattered  you  lost  your 
gift.  The  light  can't  shine  through  shattered  things; 
and  that  was  when  you  recognized  that  without 
God  we  are  a  nothingness ;  a  nothingness  and  a  rest 
lessness  mingled.  You  know.  There  are  no  words 
for  it,  though  so  many  people  have  found  it  and 
tried  to  say  it.  I  know,  too,  after  a  fashion.  I've 
had  crashes,  too.  But  now  your  gift  has  come  back, 
for  you  are  whole  again ;  built  up  on  an  entirely  new 


ADRIENNE  TONER  305 

principle.  You  see,  it's  another  you  I  am  fond  of. 
You  must  believe  in  her,  too.  You  do  believe  in  her. 
If  you  didn't  you  could  not  have  found  your  gift." 

She  had  stood  quite  still  while  he  spoke,  looking 
down,  not  at  him  but  at  the  little  tray  between  her 
hands,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  near  tears.  Her 
voice  was  scarcely  audible  as  she  said:  "Thank 
you."  And  she  made  an  effort  over  herself  to  add: 
"What  you  say  is  true." 

"We  must  talk,"  said  Oldmeadow.  He  felt  ex 
traordinarily  happy.  "There  are  so  many  things 
I  want  to  ask  you  about."  And  he  went  on,  his 
hand  still  on  her  arm,  seeing  that  she  struggled  not 
to  cry  and  helping  her  to  recover:  "You're  not 
going  away  for  some  time,  yet,  I  hope.  Please  don't. 
There'll  soon  be  no  need  of  hospitals  of  this  sort, 
anywhere,  will  there?  and  you  must  manage  to  stay 
on  here  a  little  longer.  I  shan't  get  on  if  you  go. 
You  won't  leave  me  just  as  you've  saved  me,  will 
you,  Mrs.  Barney?" 

At  the  name,  over- taxed  as  she  was  already,  a 
pitiful  colour  flooded  her  face  and  before  his  blunder 
made  visible  his  own  blood  answered  hers,  mounting 
hotly  to  his  forehead.  "Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  he  mur 
mured,  helpless  and  hating  himself,  while  his  hand 
dropped.  She  stood  over  him,  holding  herself  there 
so  as  not  to  hurt  him  by  the  aspect  of  flight.  She 
even,  in  a  moment,  forced  herself  to  smile.  It  was 
the  first  smile  he  had  seen  on  her  face.  "You've 
nothing  to  be  sorry  for,  Mr.  Oldmeadow,"  she  said, 
as  she  had  said  before.  "You're  very  kind  to  me. 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  kind  I  feel  you  are." 
And  as  she  turned  away,  carrying  the  tray,  she 
added:  "No;  I  won't  go  yet." 


CHAPTER  IV 

HE  did  not  see  her  again  for  two  days;  and  she  did 
not  even  come  at  night.  But  he  now  kept  possession 
of  his  new  strength  and  slept  without  her  help.  The 
sense  of  happiness  brooded  upon  him.  He  did  not 
remember  ever  having  felt  so  happy.  His  life  was 
irradiated  and  enhanced  as  if  by  some  supreme  ex 
perience. 

It  was  already  late  afternoon  when,  on  the  second 
day,  she  appeared ;  but  in  this  month  of  August  his 
room  was  still  filled  with  the  reflection  of  the  sun 
light  and  the  warm  colour  bathed  her  as  she  entered. 
She  wore  a  blue  cloak  over  her  white  linen  dress  and 
she  had  perhaps  been  walking,  for  there  was  a  slight 
flush  on  her  cheeks  and  a  look  almost  of  excitement 
in  her  eyes. 

She  unfastened  her  cloak  and  put  it  aside  and 
then,  taking  the  chair  near  the  window,  clasping  her 
hands,  as  before,  in  her  lap,  she  said,  without  pre 
amble  and  with  a  peculiar  vehemence:  "You  hear 
often  from  Barney,  don't  you?" 

Oldmeadow  felt  himself  colouring.  "Only  once, 
directly.  It  rather  tires  him  to  sit  up,  you  know. 
But  he's  getting  on  wonderfully  and  the  doctors 
think  he'll  soon  be  able  to  walk  a  little  —  with  a 
crutch,  of  course." 

"But  you  do  hear,  constantly,  from  Nancy,  don't 
you,"  said  Adrienne,  clasping  and  unclasping  her 
hands  but  speaking  with  a  steadiness  he  felt  to  be 
rehearsed.  "He  is  at  Coldbrooks,  I  know,  and 
Nancy  is  with  him,  and  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Averil. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  307 

It  all  seems  almost  happy,  doesn't  it?  as  happy  as 
it  can  be,  now,  with  Palgrave  dead  and  Barney 
shackled." 

Startled  as  he  was  by  her  directness  Oldmeadow 
managed  to  meet  it. 

"Yes;  almost  happy,"  he  said.  "  I  was  with  them 
before  I  came  out  this  last  time  and  felt  that  about 
them.  Poor  Mrs.  Chadwick  is  a  good  deal  changed ; 
but  even  she  is  reviving." 

"She  has  had  too  much  to  bear,"  said  Adrienne. 
"  I  saw  her  again,  too,  at  the  end,  when  she  came  to 
Palgrave.  She  can  never  forgive  me.  Meg  is  happy 
now,  but  she  will  never  forgive  rne  either.  I  wrought 
havoc  in  their  lives,  didn't  I?" 

"Well,  you  or  fate.  I  don't  blame  you  for  any  of 
that,  you  know,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

"I  don't  say  that  I  blame  myself  for  it,"  said 
Adrienne.  "I  may  have  been  right  or  I  may  have 
been  wrong.  I  don't  know.  It  is  not  in  things  like 
that  that  I  was  bad.  But  what  we  must  face  is  that 
I  wrought  havoc;  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  they 
might  all,  now,  be  really  happy.  Completely  happy. 
If  I  had  not  been  there  Palgrave  would  not  have 
been  so  sure  of  himself.  And  if  I  had  not  been  there 
Nancy  and  Barney  would  have  married." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "If  Barney 
hadn't  fallen  in  love  with  you  he  might  very  prob 
ably  have  fallen  in  love  with  some  one  else,  not 
Nancy." 

"  Perhaps,  not  probably,"  said  Adrienne.  "And  if 
he  had  he  would  have  stayed  in  love  with  her,  for 
Barney  is  a  faithful  person.  And  it  may  have  been 
because  I  was  so  completely  the  wrong  person  for 
him  that  he  came  to  know  so  quickly  that  Nancy 


308  ADRIENNE  TONER 

was  completely  the  right  one.  What  I  feel  is  that 
anybody  but  Nancy  would  always  have  been,  really, 
wrong.  And  now  that  he  loves  her  but  is  shackled, 
there's  only  one  thing  more  that  can  be  done.  I 
have  often  thought  of  it;  I  needn't  tell  you  that. 
But,  till  now,  I  could  never  see  my  way.  It's  you 
who  have  shown  it  to  me.  In  what  you  said  the 
other  day.  It's  wonderful  the  way  you  come  into 
my  life,  Mr.  Oldmeadow.  You  made  me  feel  that  I 
had  a  friend  in  you ;  a  true,  true  friend.  And  I  know 
what  a  friend  Nancy  and  Barney  have.  So  the  way 
opens.  We  must  set  Barney  free,  Mr.  Oldmeadow. 
He  and  Nancy  must  be  free  to  marry.  You  and  I 
can  do  it  for  them  and  only  you  and  I." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Oldmeadow  murmured 
as,  after  her  words,  the  silence  had  grown  deep  be 
tween  them.  He  repeated,  using  now  the  name  in 
evitably  and  forgetting  the  other  day.  "What  do 
you  mean,  Mrs.  Barney?" 

To-day  she  did  not  flush,  but  to-day  there  was  a 
reason  for  her  acceptance.  It  was,  he  saw  in  her 
next  words,  only  as  Barney's  wife  that  she  could 
help  him. 

"He  must  divorce  me,"  she  said.  "You  and  I 
could  go  away  together  and  he  could  divorce  me. 
Oh,  I  know,  it's  a  dreadful  thing  to  ask  of  you,  his 
friend.  I've  thought  of  all  that.  Wait.  Let  me 
finish.  I've  thought  of  nothing  else  since  the  other 
day.  It  came  to  me  in  the  night  after  you  had  been 
so  wonderful  to  me;  after  that  wonderful  thing  had 
happened  to  us.  You  felt  it,  too,  I  know.  It  was  as 
if  we  had  taken  a  sacrament  together.  I'm  not  a 
Christian.  You  know  what  I  mean.  We  felt  the 
deepest  things  together,  didn't  we.  And  it's  because 


ADRIENNE  TONER  309 

of  that  that  I  can  ask  this  of  you.  No  one  else  would 
understand.  No  one  else  would  care  for  me  enough, 
or  for  him.  And  then,  you  could  explain  it  all  to 
him  and  no  one  else  could  do  that.  You  could  explain 
that  it  had  been  to  set  him  free.  To  set  me  free. 
Because  they'd  have  to  think  and  believe  it  was  for 
my  sake,  too,  that  you  did  it,  wouldn't  they?  so  as 
to  have  it  really  happy  for  them ;  so  that  it  shouldn't 
hurt.  When  it  was  all  over  you  could  go  and  explain 
why  you  had  done  it.  All  we  have  to  do,  you  know, 
is  to  stay  in  a  hotel  together;  I  bearing  your  name. 
It's  very  simple,  really." 

He  lay  staring  at  her,  overwhelmed.  The  tears 
had  risen  to  his  eyes  as  her  beauty  and  her  ab 
surdity  were  thus  revealed  to  him,  and  as  she  spoke 
of  their  sacrament;  but  amazement  blurred  all  his 
faculties.  He  had  never  in  his  life  been  so  amazed. 
And  when  he  began  to  emerge,  to  take  possession  of 
himself  again,  it  was  only  of  her  he  could  think;  not 
of  himself  or  Nancy  and  Barney.  Only  of  her  and 
of  her  beauty  and  absurdity. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Barney,"  he  said  at  last,  and  he  did 
not  know  what  to  say;  "it's  you  who  are  wonderful, 
you  alone.  I'd  do  anything,  anything  for  you  that 
I  could.  Anything  but  this.  Because,  truly,  this  is 
impossible." 

"Why  impossible?"  she  asked,  and  her  voice  was 
almost  stern. 

"  You  can't  smirch  yourself  like  that."  It  was  only 
one  reason;  but  it  was  the  first  that  came  to  him. 

"I?"  she  stared.  "I  don't  think  it  is  to  be 
smirched.  I  shall  know  why  I  do  it." 

"Other  people  won't  know.  Other  people  will 
think  you  smirched." 


3io  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"No  one  I  care  for.  Everyone  I  care  for  will 
understand." 

"But  to  the  world  at  large?  Your  name?  Your 
reputation?"  Oldmeadow  protested.  "Do  they 
mean  nothing  to  you?" 

A  faintly  bitter  humour  touched  her  lips.  "You've 
always  taken  the  side  of  the  world  in  all  our 
controversies,  haven't  you,  Mr.  Oldmeadow?  and 
you  were  probably  right  and  I  was  probably  wrong ; 
but  not  because  of  what  the  world  would  think.  I 
know  I'm  right  now,  and  those  words:  name:  repu 
tation  —  mean  nothing  to  me.  The  world  and  I 
haven't  much  to  do  with  each  other.  A  divorced 
wife  can  run  soup-kitchens  and  fever  hospitals  just 
as  well  as  the  most  unsmirched  woman  of  the  world. 
I'm  not  likely  to  want  to  be  presented  at  courts,  am 
I?  Don't  think  of  me,  please.  It's  not  a  question 
of  me.  Only  of  you.  Will  you  do  it?" 

"I  couldn't  possibly  do  it,"  said  Oldmeadow,  and 
he  was  still  hardly  taking  her  monstrous  proposal 
seriously. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  scrutinizing  him.  "It's 
not  that  you  mind  about  your  name  and  reputation, 
is  it?" 

"Not  much.  Perhaps  not  much,"  said  Old- 
meadow;  "but  about  theirs.  That's  what  you  don't 
see.  That  it  would  be  impossible  for  them.  You 
don't  see  how  unique  you  are;  how  unlike  other 
people.  Nancy  and  Barney  couldn't  marry  on  a 
fake.  The  only  way  out,"  said  Oldmeadow,  looking 
at  her  with  an  edge  of  ironic  grimness  in  his  contem 
plation,  "if  one  were  really  to  consider  it,  would  be 
for  you  to  marry  me  afterwards  and  for  us  to  dis 
appear/' 


ADRIENNE  TONER  311 

She  gazed  at  him  and  he  saw  that  she  weighed  the 
idea.  "But  you'd  be  shackled  then,"  she  said,  and 
her  thoughts  were  evidently  clear.  "  It  would  mean, 
besides,  that  you  would  lose  them." 

"As  to  being  shackled,"  Oldmeadow,  still  grimly, 
met  the  difficulty,  "that's  of  no  moment.  I'm  the 
snuffy,  snappy  bachelor  type,  you  remember,  and 
I  don't  suppose  I'd  ever  have  married.  As  to  losing 
them,  I  certainly  should." 

"We  mustn't  think  of  it  then,"  said  Adrienne. 
"You  and  Barney  and  Nancy  mustn't  lose  each 
other." 

"But  we  should  in  either  way.  I  could  hardly 
take  up  my  friendship  with  them  again  after  Barney 
had  divorced  you  on  account  of  me,  even  if  you  and 
I  didn't  marry.  It  would  give  the  whole  thing  away, 
if  it  were  possible  for  them  to  meet  me  again.  As  I 
say,  they'd  feel  they  had  no  right  to  their  freedom  on 
such  a  fake  as  that." 

"They  couldn't  feel  really  free  unless  some  one 
had  really  committed  adultery  for  their  sakes?" 
Again  Adrienne  smiled  with  her  faint  bitterness  and 
he  wondered  if  a  man  and  woman  had  ever  before 
had  a  more  astonishing  conversation.  "That  seems 
to  me  to  be  asking  for  a  little  too  much  icing  on  your 
cake.  Of  course  it  couldn't  be  a  nice,  new,  snowy 
wedding-cake;  poor  Mrs.  Chadwick  wouldn't  like 
it  at  all,  nor  Mrs.  Averil;  but  it  would  be  the  best 
we  could  do  for  them ;  and  I  should  think  that  when 
people  love  each  other  and  are  the  right  people  for 
each  other  they'd  be  thankful  for  any  kind  of  cake. 
Even  if  it  were  a  good  deal  burned  around  the 
edges,"  Adrienne  finished,  her  slight  bitterness  evi 
dently  finding  satisfaction  in  the  simile. 


312  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"But  they  wouldn't  see  it  at  all  like  that,"  said 
Oldmeadow,  now  with  unalloyed  gravity.  "They'd 
see  it  as  a  cake  they  had  stolen ;  a  cake  they  had  no 
right  to.  It's  a  question  of  the  laws  we  live  under. 
Not  of  personal,  but  of  public  integrity.  They 
couldn't  profit  by  a  hoodwinked  law.  It's  that  that 
would  spoil  things  for  them.  According  to  the  law 
they'd  have  no  right  to  their  freedom.  And,  now 
that  I  am  speaking  seriously,  it's  that  I  feel,  too. 
What  you  are  asking  of  me,  my  dear  friend,  is  no 
more  nor  less  than  a  felony." 

She  meditated,  unmoved,  still  almost  sternly, 
turning  her  eyes  from  him  and  leaning  her  elbow 
on  the  window-sill,  her  head  upon  her  hand.  "I 
see,"  she  said  at  last.  "  For  people  who  mind  about 
the  law,  I  see  that  it  would  spoil  it.  I  don't  mind. 
I  think  the  law's  there  to  force  us  to  be  kind  and 
just  to  each  other  if  we  won't  be  by  ourselves.  If 
the  law  gets  tied  up  in  such  a  foolish  knot  as  to  say 
that  people  may  sin  to  set  other  people  free,  but 
mayn't  pretend  to  sin,  I  think  we  have  a  right  to 
help  it  out  and  to  make  it  do  good  against  its  own 
will.  I  don't  mind  the  law;  luckily  for  them.  Be 
cause  I  won't  go  back  from  it  now.  I  won't  leave 
them  there,  loving  each  other  but  never  knowing 
the  fullness  of  love.  I  won't  give  up  a  thing  I  feel 
right  because  other  people  feel  it  wrong.  So  I  must 
find  somebody  else." 

Oldmeadow  looked  at  her  in  a  culminated  and 
wholly  unpleasant  astonishment.  "Somebody  else? 
Who  could  there  be?" 

"You  may  well  ask,"  Adrienne  remarked,  glanc 
ing  round  at  him  with  a  touch  of  mild  asperity. 
"You  are  the  only  completely  right  person,  be- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  313 

cause  only  you  and  I  feel  enough  for  them  to  do  it 
for  them.  What  I  must  do  now  is  to  find  some  one 
who  would  feel  enough,  just  for  me,  to  do  it  for  me. 
It  makes  it  more  unfair  for  him,  doesn't  it.  He'll 
have  only  the  one  friend  to  help.  But  on  the  other 
hand  it  will  leave  them  without  a  scruple.  They'd 
know  from  the  beginning  that  with  you  and  me  it 
was  a  fake ;  but  with  him  it  might  seem  quite  prob 
able.  Yes;  it's  strange;  I  had  a  letter  from  him  only 
yesterday.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  him  other 
wise.  I  might  have  had  to  give  up.  But  the  more 
I  think,"  Adrienne  meditated  intently,  her  head  on 
her  hand,  her  eyes  turned  on  the  prospect  outside, 
"the  more  I  seem  to  see  that  Hamilton  Prentiss  is 
the  only  other  chance." 

"Hamilton  Prentiss?"  Oldmeadow  echoed  faintly. 

"You  met  him  once,"  said  Adrienne,  looking 
round  at  him  again.  "But  you've  probably  for 
gotten.  At  the  dinner  we  gave,  Barney  and  I,  in 
London,  so  long  ago.  Tall,  fair,  distinguished  look 
ing.  The  son  of  my  Calif ornian  friend ;  the  one  you 
and  Mrs.  Aldesey  thought  so  tiresome." 

He  felt  himself  colouring,  but  he  could  give  little 
thought  to  the  minor  discomfiture,  so  deeply  was 
his  mind  engaged  with  the  major  one. 

"Did  we?"  he  said. 

"And  you  thought  I  didn't  see  it,"  said  Adrienne. 
"It  made  me  dreadfully  angry  with  you  both, 
though  I  didn't  know  I  was  angry ;  I  thought  I  was 
only  grieved.  I  behaved  spitefully  to  Mrs.  Aldesey 
that  night,  you  will  remember,  though  I  didn't 
know  I  was  spiteful.  I  did  know,  however,  that  she 
was  separated  from  her  husband"  —  again  Ad 
rienne  looked,  calmly,  round  at  him  —  "and  it  was 


3H  ADRIENNE  TONER 

a  lie  I  told  Barney  when  I  said  I  didn't.  Sometimes 
I  think  that  lie  was  the  beginning  of  everything; 
that  it  was  when  I  told  it  that  I  began  to  hide  from 
myself.  However  -  "  She  passed  from  the  personal 
theme.  "Yes;  Hamilton  is,  I  believe,  big  enough 
and  beautiful  and  generous  enough  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  he  is,  is  he?"  said  Oldmeadow.  "And  I'm 
not,  I  take  it.  You're  horribly  unkind.  But  I  don't 
want  to  talk  about  myself.  What  I  want  to  talk 
about  is  you.  You  must  drop  this  preposterous 
idea  of  yours.  Really  you  must.  You've  had  ideas 
like  it  before.  Re-member  Meg;  what  a  mess  you 
made  there.  I  told  you  then  that  you  were  wrong 
and  I  tell  you  you're  wrong  now.  You  must  give  it 
up.  Do  you  see?  We're  always  quarrelling,  aren't 
we?" 

"But  I  don't  at  all  know  that  I  was  wrong  about 
Meg,  Mr.  Oldmeadow,"  said  Adrienne.  "And  if  I 
was,  it  was  because  I  didn't  understand  her.  I  do 
understand  myself,  and  I  don't  agree  that  I'm 
wrong  or  that  my  plan  is  preposterous.  You  won't 
call  it  preposterous,  I  suppose,  if  it  succeeds  and 
makes  Barney  and  Nancy  happy.  No;  I'm  not 
going  to  drop  it.  Nothing  you  could  say  could  make 
me  drop  it.  As  for  Hamilton,  I  don't  set  him  above 
you ;  not  in  any  way.  It's  only  that  you  and  he  have 
different  lights.  I  know  why  you  can't  do  this. 
You've  shown  me  why.  And  I  wouldn't  for  any 
thing  not  have  you  follow  your  own  light." 

"And  you  seriously  mean,"  cried  Oldmeadow, 
"that  you'd  ask  this  young  fellow  —  I  remember 
him  perfectly  and  I'm  sure  he's  capable  of  any 
degree  of  ingenuousness  —  you'd  ask  him  to  go 
about  with  you  as  though  he  were  your  husband? 


ADR1ENNE  TONER  315 

Why,  for  one  thing,  he'd  be  sure  to  fall  head  over 
heels  in  love  with  you,  and  where  would  you  be 
then?" 

Adrienne  examined  him.  "But  from  the  point  of 
view  of  hoodwinking,  that  would  be  all  to  the  good, 
wouldn't  it?"  she  inquired;  "though  unfortunate 
for  Hamilton.  He  won't,  however,"  she  went  on, 
her  dreadful  lucidity  revealing  to  him  the  hopeless 
ness  of  any  protest  he  might  still  have  found  to 
make.  "There's  a  very  lovely  girl  out  in  California 
he's  devoted  to;  a  young  poetess.  He'll  have  to 
write  to  her  about  it  first,  of  course;  Hamilton's  at 
the  front  now,  you  see;  and  I  must  write  to  his 
mother.  She  and  Carola  Brown  are  very  near  each 
other  and  will  talk  it  out  together  and  I  feel  sure 
they  will  see  it  as  I  do.  They'll  see  it  as  something 
big  I'm  asking  them  to  do  for  me  —  to  set  me  free. 
I'm  sure  I  can  count  on  Gertrude  and  I'm  sure 
Hamilton  can  count  on  Carola.  She's  a  very  rare, 
strong  spirit." 

Oldmeadow,  suddenly,  was  feeling  exhausted,  and 
a  clutch  of  hysterical  laughter,  as  she  spoke  these 
last  words,  held  his  throat  for  a  moment.  He  laid 
his  head  back  on  his  pillow  and  closed  his  eyes, 
while  he  saw  Adrienne  and  Hamilton  Prentiss 
wandering  by  the  banks  of  a  French  river  where 
poplars  stood  against  a  silver  sky.  He  knew  that 
he  had  accepted  nothing  when  he  said  at  last: 
"Shall  we  talk  about  it  another  time?  To-morrow? 
I  mean,  don't  take  any  steps,  will  you,  until  we've 
talked.  Don't  write  to  your  beautiful,  big  friend." 

"You  always  make  fun  of  me  a  little,  don't  you," 
said  Adrienne  tranquilly.  She  seemed  aware  of  some 
further  deep  discomposure  in  him  and  willing, 


316  ADRIENNE  TONER 

though  not  comprehending  it,  to  meet  it  with 
friendly  tolerance.  "If  he  is  big  and  beautiful,  why 
shouldn't  I  say  it?  But  I  won't  write  until  we've 
talked  again.  It  can't  be,  anyway,  until  the  war  is 
over.  And  I've  had  already  to  wait  for  four  years." 


CHAPTER  V 

SHE  might  feel  that  he  had  cruelly  failed  her;  but 
when  she  came  at  the  same  hour  next  day  it  was 
evident  to  him  from  her  demeanour  that  she  imag 
ined  him  resigned,  if  not  converted,  to  her  alter 
native  plan.  She  carried  a  bunch  of  late  roses  and 
said  that  she  had  been  having  a  lovely  drive  with  a 
dear  old  friend  from  Denver,  who  had  managed  to 
get  to  Boulogne  to  see  her. 

"Your  friends  all  come  from  such  distant  places," 
said  Oldmeadow  with  a  pretended  fretfulness  that 
veiled  an  indescribable  restlessness.  "California, 
Denver,  Chicago.  They  have,  all  of  them,  an  im 
placably  remote  sound,  as  if  they  were  carrying  you, 
already,  off  to  other  planets." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  take  so  long,  really,  to  get  to 
any  of  them,"  said  Adrienne,  placing  the  roses  in  a 
glass  of  water  by  his  side,  a  close,  funny  little  bunch, 
red  roses  in  the  middle  and  white  ones  all  round. 
She  had  taken  off  her  cloak  and  laid  a  newspaper 
down  on  the  little  table,  seating  herself,  then,  in  the 
window  and  keeping  in  her  hands  a  pocket-book 
that,  in  its  flatness  and  length  and  the  way  she  held 
it,  reminded  him  of  the  little  blue  and  grey  fan  of 
the  dinner-party  where  she  had  told  her  first  lie. 
His  mind  was  emptied  of  thought.  Only  pictures 
crossed  it,  pictures  of  Adrienne  and  the  tall,  fair 
youth  with  the  ingenuous  eyes,  wandering  by  the 
French  river;  and,  again,  Adrienne  on  that  night, 
now  as  distant  as  California,  when,  with  her  fan  and 
pearl-wreathed  hair,  she  had  met  his  persiflage  with 


3i8  ADRIENNE  TONER 

her  rebuking  imperturbability.  But  under  the  pic 
tures  a  sense  of  violent  tension  made  his  breathing 
shallow.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  pocket-book  and 
wondered  how  she  had  nursed  people  with  those  in 
effectual-looking  hands. 

"Where  were  you  trained  for  nursing?"  he  asked 
her  suddenly.  "Out  here?  or  in  England?" 

"In  England.  In  Oxford.  Before  Palgrave  was 
taken,"  said  Adrienne.  "I  gave  up  my  philosophy 
very  soon  for  that.  I  worked  in  a  hospital  there." 

"And  how  came  you  to  go  out  to  Salonika?  Tell 
me  about  it.  And  about  your  hospital  here,"  he 
went  on  with  a  growing  sense  of  keeping  something 
off.  "It's  your  own  hospital  I  hear,  and  wonder 
fully  run.  Sir  Kenneth  was  talking  to  me  about  you 
this  morning." 

"What  a  fine  person  he  is,"  said  Adrienne.  "  Yes, 
he  came  to  see  us  and  liked  the  way  it  was  done." 
She  was  pleased,  he  saw,  to  tell  him  anything  he 
chose  to  ask  about.  She  told  him  about  her  hospital 
and  of  all  its  adventures  —  they  had  been  under 
fire  so  often  that  it  had  become  an  everyday  event ; 
and  about  how  admirable  a  staff  she  had  orga 
nized —  "rare,  devoted  people"  -and  about  their 
wounded,  their  desperately  wounded  poilus  and 
how  they  came  to  love  them  all.  He  remembered, 
as  she  talked,  that  she  was  rich;  even  richer  than 
he  had  thought,  since  she  could  leave  a  fortune  to 
Palgrave  and  yet  equip  hospitals  in  France  and  in 
Salonika.  She  told  him  about  Salonika,  too.  It  had 
been  a  fever  hospital  there  and  the  misery  and 
suffering  had  seemed  worse  than  the  suffering  here 
in  France.  Yes;  she  had  caught  the  fever  herself 
and  had  nearly  died. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  319 

She  had  no  gift  for  the  apt  or  vivid  word.  Her 
nature  had  been  revealed  to  him  as  barbarous,  or 
sublime,  in  its  unconventionality,  yet  it  expressed 
itself  only  in  the  medium  of  trite  convention.  But 
his  time  of  jibbing  at  her  platitudes  was  long  since 
passed.  He  listened,  rather,  with  a  tender,  if  super 
ficial  interest,  seeing  her  heroic  little  figure  moving, 
unconcerned,  among  pestilences  and  bombard 
ments.  "It's  not  only  what  you  tell  me,"  he  said, 
when  she  had  brought  her  recital  up  to  date.  "I 
heard  so  much  from  Sir  Kenneth.  You  are  one  of 
the  great  people  of  the  war." 

"Am  I?"  she  said.  That,  too,  unfeignedly,  left 
her  unconcerned. 

"You've  the  gift  of  leadership.  The  gift  for  big 
things  generally." 

She  nodded.   "I'm  only  fit  for  big  things." 

"Only?  How  do  you  mean?" 

"Little  ones  are  more  difficult,  aren't  they.  My 
feet  get  tangled  in  them.  To  be  fit  for  daily  life  and 
all  the  tangles;  that's  the  real  test,  isn't  it?  That's 
just  the  kind  of  thing  you  see  so  clearly,  Mr.  Old- 
meadow.  Big  things  and  the  people  who  do  them 
are  just  the  kind  of  things  you  see  through." 

"Oh,  but  you  misunderstood  me  —  or  misunder 
stand,"  said  Oldmeadow.  "Big  things  are  the  con 
dition  of  life;  the  little  things  can  only  be  built  up 
on  them.  One  must  fight  wars  and  save  the  world 
before  one  can  set  up  one's  tea-tables."  He  remem 
bered  having  thought  of  something  like  this  at 
Lydia's  tea-table.  "Tea-tables  are  important,  I 
know,  and  the  things  that  happen  round  them.  But 
if  one  can  nurse  a  ward  of  typhus  patients  single- 
handed  one  must  be  forgiven  for  letting  the  tea-pot 


320  ADRIENNE  TONER 

slip.  Really  I  never  imagined  you  capable  of  all 
you've  done." 

"I  always  thought  I  was  capable  of  anything," 
said  Adrienne  smiling  slightly,  her  eyes  meeting  his 
in  a  tranquil  partaking  of  the  jest,  that  must  be  at 
her  expense.  "  You  helped  me  to  find  that  out  about 
myself  —  with  all  the  rest.  And  I  was  right  enough 
in  thinking  that  I  could  face  things  and  lead  people. 
But  I  wasn't  capable  of  the  most  important  things. 
I  wasn't  capable  of  being  a  wise  and  happy  wife.  I 
wasn't  even  capable  of  being  truthful  in  drawing- 
rooms  when  other  women  made  me  angry.  But  I 
can  go  on  battle-fields  and  found  hospitals  and  tend 
the  sick  and  dying.  Shells  and  pestilences"  -her 
smile  was  gone  —  "if  people  knew  how  trivial  they 
are  —  compared  to  seeing  your  husband  look  at  you 
with  hatred." 

She  had  turned  her  eyes  away  as  she  was  thus 
betrayed  into  revealing  the  old  bitternesses  of  her 
heart  and  he  dropped  his  to  the  little  pocket-book 
that  now  lay  still  between  her  hands.  The  feeling 
in  her  voice,  the  suffering  it  revealed  to  him,  with 
the  bitterness,  woke  an  unendurable  feeling  in  him 
self.  He  did  not  clearly  see  what  the  test  was  to 
which  he  put  himself;  but  he  knew  that  what  he 
must  say  to  her  was  the  most  difficult  thing  he  had 
ever  had  to  say ;  and  he  found  it  only  after  the  silence 
had  grown  long. 

"Mrs.  Barney  —  everything  has  changed,  hasn't 
it;  you've  changed;  I've  changed;  Barney  may 
have  changed.  It  was  only,  after  all,  a  moment  of 
miserable  misunderstanding  between  you.  He  never 
really  knew  what  you  were  feeling.  He  thought  you 
didn't  care  for  him  any  longer,  when,  really,  you 


ADRIENNE  TONER  321 

were  finding  out  how  much  you  cared.  Don't  you 
think,  before  you  take  final  decisions,  that  you 
ought  to  see  Barney  again?  Don't  you  think  you 
ought  to  give  him  another  chance?  I  could  arrange 
it  all  for  you,  when  I  got  home." 

The  flood  of  colour,  deep  and  sick,  had  mounted 
to  her  face,  masking  it  strangely,  painfully,  to  where 
the  white  linen  cut  across  her  brow  and  bound  her 
chin.  And,  almost  supplicatingly,  since  he  saw  that 
she  could  not  speak,  he  murmured:  "You  can  be  a 
wise  and  happy  wife  now;  and  he  loved  you  so 
dearly." 

She  did  not  lift  her  eyes.  She  sat  there,  looking 
down,  tightly  holding  the  pocket-book  in  her  lap. 

"  Let  me  tell  him,  when  I  get  home,  that  I've  seen 
you  again,"  he  supplicated.  "Let  me  arrange  a 
meeting." 

Slowly,  not  lifting  her  eyes,  she  shook  her  head 
and  he  heard  her,  just  heard  her  say:  "It's  not 
pride.  Don't  think  that." 

"No;  no;  I  know  it's  not.  Good  heavens,  I 
couldn't  think  it  that.  You  feel  it's  no  good.  You 
feel  that  his  heart  is  occupied.  It  is.  I  can't  pretend 
to  hide  from  you  that  it  is.  But  your  place  in  it  was 
supreme.  There  would  be  no  unfairness  if  you  took 
it  again.  Nancy  would  be  the  first  person  to  want 
you  to  take  it.  You  know  that  that  is  true  of 
Nancy." 

"I  know.  I  heard  her  plead  for  me,"  said  Ad- 
rienne. 

The  sentence  fell,  soft  and  trenchant;  and  he  re 
membered,  in  the  silence  that  followed,  what  she  had 
heard.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  feeling  half  suffo 
cated.  But  he  had  met  his  test.  It  was  inevitable, 


322  ADRIENNE  TONER 

he  knew  it  now,  that  she  should  say  "Barney  and  I 
are  parted  for  ever." 

Silence  dropped  again  between  them.  He  did  not 
know  what  was  passing  behind  its  curtain  and 
whether  bitterness  or  only  grief  was  in  her  heart. 

He  lay,  drawing  the  slow,  careful  breaths  of  his 
recovery,  and  saw  her  presently  put  out  her  hand 
and  take  up  her  New  York  Herald  and  unfold  it. 
She  looked  down  the  columns  unseeingly;  but  the 
little  feint  of  interest  helped  her. 

Slowly  the  colour  faded  from  her  face  and  it  was 
as  if  the  curtain  lifted  when,  laying  the  paper  down, 
she  said,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  finding  words  to 
comfort  him :  ' '  Really  everything  is  quite  clear  be 
fore  me  now.  I  shall  write  at  once  to  Hamilton,  and 
to  his  mother.  If  he  agrees,  if  they  all  agree,  he  and 
I  can  go  away  very  soon  I  think.  Afterwards,  I  shall 
stay  over  here.  I've  quite  made  up  my  mind  to 
that.  There'll  be  so  much  to  do;  for  years  and  years ; 
for  all  one's  lifetime.  Ways  will  open.  When  one  is 
big,"  she  smiled  the  smile  at  once  so  gentle  and  so 
bitter,  "and  has  plenty  of  money,  ways  always  do. 
I'm  a  deracinee  creature;  I  never  had  any  roots,  you 
know;  and  I  can't  do  better,  I'm  sure,  than  to  make 
soil  for  the  uprooted  people  to  grow  in  again.  That's 
what's  most  needed  now,  isn't  it?  Soil.  It's  the 
fundamental  things  of  life,  its  bare  possibilities, 
that  have  been  so  terribly  destroyed  over  here. 
America  has,  still,  more  soil  than  she  can  use,  and 
since  I'm  an  American,  and  a  rich  one,  my  best  plan 
is  to  use  America,  in  my  fortune  and  my  person,  for 
Europe.  Because  I  love  them  both  and  because  they 
both  need  each  other." 

She  had  quite  recovered  herself     Her  face  had 


ADRIENNE  TONER  323 

found  again  its  pale,  fawn  tints  and  she  was  looking 
at  him  with  her  quietest  contemplation  while  he, 
in  silence,  lay  looking  at  her. 

"It's  not  about  the  things  I  shall  do  that  I'm  per 
plexed,  ever,"  she  went  on.  "But  I'm  sometimes 
perplexed  about  myself.  I  sometimes  wish  I  were  a 
Roman  Catholic.  In  an  order  of  some  kind.  Under 
direction.  To  put  oneself  in  the  hands  of  a  wise  di 
rector,  it  must  be  so  peaceful.  Like  French  friends 
I  have;  such  wise,  fine  women;  so  poised  and  so 
secure.  I  often  envy  them.  But  that  can't  be  for 
me." 

She  must  feel  in  his  silence  now  the  quality  of 
some  extreme  emotion,  and  that  she  believed  it  to 
be  pity  was  evident  to  him  as  she  went  on,  seeking 
to  comfort  him;  and  troubled  by  his  trouble:  "You 
mustn't  be  sorry.  I  am  not  unhappy.  I  am  a  happy 
person.  Do  you  remember  that  Sunday  morning 
at  Cold  brooks,  long  ago?  How  I  said  to  Mother  — 
to  Mrs.  Chadwick  —  that  I  had  no  doubts?  You 
thought  me  fatuous.  I  dimly  saw  that  you  thought 
me  fatuous.  But  it's  still  true  of  me.  I  must  tell 
you,  so  that  you  shan't  think  I'm  unhappy.  I've 
been,  it  seems  to  me,  through  everything  since  then. 
I've  had  doubts  —  every  doubt:  of  myself;  of  life; 
of  all  the  things  I  trusted.  Doubt  at  last,  when  the 
dreadful  darknesses  came  —  Barney's  hatred,  Pal- 
grave's  death  —  of  God.  We've  never  spoken  of 
Palgrave,  have  we?  I  was  with  him,  you  had  heard, 
and  at  the  very  end  it  was  he  who  helped  me  rather 
than  I  him.  He  held  me  up.  When  he  was  dying  he 
held  me  up.  He  made  me  promise  him  that  I  would 
not  kill  myself  —  for  he  guessed  what  I  was  think 
ing;  he  made  me  promise  to  go  on.  And  he  saved 


324  ADRIENNE  TONER 

me.  The  light  began  to  come  back  to  me  while  I  sat 
beside  him  after  he  had  died." 

She  had  not  looked  at  him  while  she  spoke,  but 
down  at  her  hands  that,  trembling,  turned  and  re 
turned  the  little  pocket-book.  And  controlling  her 
voice  as  she  sought  to  control  the  trembling  of  her 
hands,  she  said:  "Perhaps  it  is  always  like  that. 
When  one  confesses  one's  sin  and  hates  it  in  oneself, 
even  if  it  is  still  there,  tempting  one,  the  light  begins 
to  come  back.  After  that  it  came  more  and  more. 
What  you  call  my  gift  is  part  of  it.  Isn't  it  strange 
that  I  should  have  had  that  gift  when  I  was  so 
blind?  But  what  you  said  was  true.  I  had  a  sort  of 
wholeness  then,  because  I  was  blind.  And  now  that 
I  see,  it's  a  better  wholeness  and  a  safer  gift.  That 
is  what  I  wanted  to  say,  really.  To  explain,  so  that 
you  shan't  be  sorry.  No  one  who  can  find  that  light 
can  be  unhappy.  It  comes  to  me  now,  always,  when 
I  need  it.  I  can  make  it  shine  in  other  people  —  as 
Palgrave  made  it  shine  in  me.  Love  does  it.  Isn't 
it  wonderful  that  it  should  be  so?  Nothing  else  is 
real  beside  it.  Nothing  is  real  without  it.  And  when 
it  happens,  when  one  feels  it  come  through  and 
shine  further,  it  is  more,  far  more,  than  happiness." 

All  the  while  that  she  had  spoken,  pale,  and  with 
her  trembling  hands,  he  had  lain  looking  at  her  in 
silence,  a  silence  that  was  dividing  him,  as  if  by  a 
vast  chasm,  from  all  his  former  life. 

He  and  Adrienne  stood  on  one  side  of  this  chasm, 
and,  while  it  seemed  to  widen  with  a  dizzying  rapid 
ity,  he  saw  that  on  the  other  stood  Barney,  Nancy, 
Coldbrooks,  and  Lydia  —  poor  Lydia  —  and  that 
they  were  being  borne  away  from  him  for  ever.  He 
saw  nothing  before  him  but  Adrienne;  and  for  how 


ADRIENNE  TONER  325 

long  was  he  to  keep  her?  That  was  his  supreme 
risk;  but  he  could  not  allay  it  or  step  back  to  the 
further  brink.  It  was  his  very  life  that  had  fallen 
in  two  while  she  had  spoken  and  without  the  sense 
of  choice ;  though  he  dimly  saw  that,  in  the  restless 
ness  and  urgency  of  the  hours  since  he  had  seen  her 
last,  the  choice  had  been  preparing. 

He  was  taking  the  only  step  possible  for  him  to 
take  on  the  narrow  foothold  of  the  present  when  he 
said,  in  a  voice  so  quiet  that  she  might  even  be  un 
aware  of  his  seeming  gross  irrelevance,  "Do  you 
know,  about  your  plan  —  for  Barney  and  Nancy  — 
I've  been  thinking  it  over  and  I've  decided  that  it 
must  be  I,  not  Hamilton." 


CHAPTER  VI 

HER  eyes  met  his  for  a  long  time  before  he  realized 
that  she  might  find  not  only  irrelevance  but  even  ir 
reverence.  She  had  shown  him  her  very  soul  and  he 
had  answered  with  this  announcement.  Of  course  it 
had  been  because  of  what  she  told  him  that  he  had 
seen  at  last  his  own  necessity;  but  he  could  not  tell 
her  that. 

"I'm  not  sorry  for  you,"  he  said.  "I  envy  you. 
You  are  one  of  the  few  really  happy  people  in  the 
world." 

"But  I'd  quite  given  that  idea  up,  Mr.  Old- 
meadow,"  she  said.  "What  has  made  you  change?" 

He  saw  the  trouble  in  her  face,  the  suspicion  of 
her  power  and  its  compulsion  over  the  lives  of 
others.  He  took  the  bull  by  the  horns. 

"You,  of  course.  I  can't  pretend  that  it's  any 
thing  else.  I  want  to  do  it  for  you  and  with  you." 

"But  it's  for  Barney  and  Nancy  that  it's  to  be 
done,"  she  said,  and  her  gravity  had  deepened. 
"It's  just  the  same  for  them  —  and  you  explained 
yesterday  that  it  would  spoil  it  for  them." 

"It  may  spoil  it  somewhat,"  said  Oldmeadow, 
contemplating  her  with  a  curious  tranquillity;  she 
was  now  all  that  was  left  him  in  life  to  contemplate; 
and  she  was  all  he  needed.  "But  it  won't  prevent  it. 
I  still  think  it  a  wrong  thing  to  do.  I  still  think  it  a 
felony.  But,  since  I  can't  turn  you  from  it,  what 
I've  come  to  see  is  that  it's,  as  you  said,  for  you  and 
me,  who  care  for  them,  to  do.  It's  not  right,  not 
decent  or  becoming,  that  anyone  who  doesn't  even 
know  them  should  be  asked  to  do  such  a  thing." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  327 

"But  Hamilton  wouldn't  do  it  for  them,"  she 
said.  "It  would  be  for  me  he  would  do  it.  And  he 
wouldn't  think  it  a  felony." 

"All  the  more  reason  that  his  innocence  shouldn't 
be  taken  advantage  of.  I  can't  stand  by  and  see  it 
done.  It's  for  my  friends  the  felony  will  be  com 
mitted  and  it's  I  who  will  bear  the  burden  for  them. 
As  to  his  doing  it  for  you,  I  know  you  better  than  he 
possibly  can  know  you,  and  care  for  you  more  than 
he  possibly  can.  If  you're  determined  on  commit 
ting  a  crime,  I'll  share  the  responsibility  with  you." 

"I  know  you  care  more.  You  are  a  wonderful 
friend.  You  are  my  best  friend  in  the  world."  She 
gazed  at  him  and  he  saw  that  for  once  he  had 
troubled  and  perplexed  her.  "And  it's  wonderful 
of  you  to  say  you'll  do  it.  But  Hamilton  won't  feel 
it  a  burden;  not  as  you  will;  and  for  him  to  do  it 
won't  spoil  it  for  them.  If  you  do  it,  it  will  spoil  it 
for  them.  You  said  so.  And  how  can  I  let  you  do  a 
thing  you  feel  so  wrong  for  my  sake?" 

"You'll  have  to.  I  won't  have  Hamilton  sacri 
ficed  in  order  that  their  cake  shall  have  no  burnt 
edges.  They'll  have  to  pay  something  for  it  in  so 
cial  and  moral  discomfort.  It  would  be  nothing  to 
the  discomfort  of  Miss  Brown,  would  it?  I  shall 
be  able  to  put  it  clearly  to  Barney  when  I  write  and 
tell  him  that  it's  for  your  sake  as  well  as  his  and  that 
he  and  Nancy,  who  have  never  sought  anything  or 
hoped  for  anything,  are  in  no  way  involved  by  our 
misdemeanour.  I  won't  emphasize  to  Barney  what 
I  feel  about  that  side  of  it.  He's  pretty  ingenuous, 
too.  It  will  be  a  less  tidy  happiness  they'll  have  to 
put  up  with.  That's  all  it  comes  to,  as  far  as  they 
are  concerned.'' 


328  ADRIENNE  TONER 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  the  trouble  and  per 
plexity  and  she  said: 

"They'll  have  to  pay  in  far  more  than  social  and 
moral  discomfort." 

"Well?  In  what  way?  How?"  he  challenged  her. 

"You  said  they'd  lose  you." 

"Only,  if  you  married  me,"  he  reminded  her. 

But  she  remembered  more  accurately.  "No. 
They'd  lose  you  anyway.  You  said  so.  You  said 
that  if  they  could  ever  see  you  again  it  would  make 
it  too  blatantly  a  fake.  And  it's  true.  I  see  it  now. 
How  could  you  turn  up  quietly,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  after  Barney  had  divorced  me  with  you 
as  co-respondent?  There's  Lady  Cockerell,"  said 
Adrienne,  and,  though  she  was  so  grave,  so  troubled, 
it  was  with  a  touch  of  mild  malice.  "There's  Mr. 
Bodman  and  Johnson,  to  say  nothing  of  Mrs.  Chad- 
wick  and  Nancy's  mother.  No,  I  really  don't  see 
you  facing  them  all  at  Coldbrooks  after  we'd  come 
out  in  the  'Daily  Mail'  with  head-lines  and  pic 
tures." 

Her  lucidity  could  indeed  disconcert  him  when  it 
sharpened  itself  like  this  with  the  apt  use  of  his  vo 
cabulary.  Tie  had  to  stop  to  think. 

"There  won't,  at  all  events,  be  pictures,"  he 
paused  by  the  triviality  to  remark.  "We  shan't 
appear.  It  will  be  an  hotel  over  here  and  the  case 
will  be  undefended.  We  needn't,  really,  consider  all 
that  too  closely.  At  the  worst,  if  they  do  lose  me, 
it's  not  a  devastating  loss.  They'll  have  each  other." 

"Ah,  but  who  will  you  have?"  Adrienne  in 
quired.  "Hamilton  will  have  Carola  and  they  will 
have  each  other.  But  who  will  you  have?" 

He  lay  and  looked  at  her.    There  was  only  one 


ADR1ENNE  TONER  329 

answer  to  that  question  and  he  could  not  make  it. 
He  was  aware  of  the  insufficiency  of  his  substitute. 
"I'd  have  your  friendship,"  he  said. 

"You  have  that  now,"  said  Adrienne.  "And 
though  I'm  so  your  friend,  I'll  be  leaving  you,  soon, 
probably  for  ever.  We'll  probably  never  meet  again, 
Mr.  Oldmeadow.  Our  paths  lie  so  apart,  don't  they? 
My  friendship  will  do  you  very  little  good." 

Her  words  cut  into  him,  but  he  kept  a  brave 
countenance.  "I'd  have  the  joy  of  knowing  I'd 
done  something  worth  while  for  you.  How  easily 
I  might  have  died  here,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you. 
My  life  is  yours  in  a  sense  and  I  want  you  to  use  it 
rather  than  Hamilton's.  I  have  my  work,  you  know; 
lots  of  things  I'm  interested  in  to  go  back  to  some 
day.  As  you  remarked,  a  divorced  wife  can  run 
soup-kitchens  and  in  the  same  way  a  co-respondent 
can  write  articles  and  go  to  concerts." 

"I  know.  I  know  what  a  fine,  big  life  you  have," 
she  murmured,  and  the  trouble  on  her  face  had 
deepened.  "But  how  can  I  take  it  from  you?  A 
felony?  How  can  I  let  you  do,  for  my  sake,  some 
thing  you  feel  to  be  so  wrong?" 

"Give  it  up  then,"  said  Oldmeadow.  And  if  he 
had  found  it  difficult  to  make  his  plea  for  Barney  a 
little  while  before,  how  much  more  difficult  he 
found  it  to  say  this,  and  to  mean  it,  now.  "Give  it 
up.  That's  your  choice,  and  your  only  choice.  You 
owe  that  to  me.  Indeed  you  do.  To  give  it  up  or  to 
accept  me  as  your  companion  in  iniquity.  I'm  not 
going  to  pretend  I  don't  think  it  iniquity  to  give  you 
ease.  You're  not  a  person  who  needs  ease.  And  I 
can  do  without  it,  too.  For  your  sake.  So  there  you 
have  it." 


330  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"Not  quite.  Not  quite,"  she  really  almost 
pleaded.  "I  couldn't  ask  it  of  Hamilton  if  he  felt 
about  it  in  the  least  little  way  as  you  do.  And 
Carola  doesn't  care  a  bit  about  the  law  either.  She's 
an  Imagist,  you  know."  —  Adrienne  offered  this 
fact  as  if  it  would  help  to  elucidate  Carola's  com 
plaisances.  "She's  written  some  very  original 
poetry.  If  it  were  Hamilton  no  one  would  lose  any 
thing,  and  Barney  and  Nancy  would  be  free.  In 
deed,  indeed  I  can't  give  it  up  when  it's  all  there, 
before  me,  with  everything  to  gain  and  nothing  to 
lose  for  anybody,  if  it's  Hamilton." 

"Then  it  must  be  me,  you  see,"  said  Oldmeadow. 
"And  I  shan't  talk  to  you  about  the  iniquity  again, 
I  promise  you.  I've  made  my  protest  and  civiliza 
tion  must  get  on  as  best  it  can.  You're  a  terrible 
person,  you  know"  -  he  smiled  a  little  at  her,  find 
ing  the  banter  so  that  she  should  not  guess  at  the 
commotion  of  his  heart.  "But  I  like  you  just  as 
you  are.  Now  where  shall  we  go?" 


CHAPTER  VII 

HE  could  not  have  believed  that  it  would  be  so  de 
licious  to  live  with  Adrienne  Toner. 

Even  at  the  moment  when  he  had  known  that  he 
loved  her,  he  had  been,  though  filled  with  the  sense 
of  a  present  heaven,  as  aware  as  ever  of  the  dis 
crepancies  between  them,  and  during  the  three 
months  that  separated  them,  he  at  Cannes,  she 
nursing  in  Paris,  he  knew  many  doubts;  never  of 
his  love,  but  of  what  it  was  making  him  do  and  of 
where  it  was  going  to  lead  them.  He  couldn't  for 
the  life  of  him  imagine  what  was  to  become  of  them 
if  his  hopes  were  fulfilled,  for  he  hardly  saw  himself 
following  her  off  to  Central  Europe  —  it  was  to 
Serbia,  her  letters  informed  him,  that  her  thoughts 
were  turning  —  nor  saw  them  established  in  London 
under  the  astonished  gaze  of  Lydia  Aldesey. 

She  had  selected  Lyons  as  their  place  of  meeting, 
because  of  the  work  for  the  rapatries  that  she  wished 
to  inspect  there,  and  from  the  moment  that  he  saw 
her  descend  from  the  Paris  express,  dressed  in  dark 
civilian  clothes  and  carrying,  with  such  an  air  of 
competence,  her  rug  and  dressing-case,  all  doubts 
were  allayed  and  all  restlessness  dispelled. 

He  had  arrived  the  day  before  and  had  found  an 
old-fashioned  hotel  with  spacious  rooms  overlooking 
the  Saone,  and,  as  they  drove  to  it  on  that  Novem 
ber  evening,  she  expressed  herself,  scrutinizing  him 
with  a  professional  eye,  as  dissatisfied  with  his  re 
covery. 

It  was  because  of  the  restlessness,  of  course,  that 


332  ADRIENNE  TONER 

he  had  not  got  as  well  as  he  should  have,  and  he 
knew  that  he  must,  in  the  stress  of  feeling  that  now 
beset  him,  look  strangely,  and  he  promised  her, 
feeling  that  he  spoke  the  truth,  that  now  that  he 
had  his  nurse  again  complete  recovery  would  be  only 
a  matter  of  days. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  our  view,"  he  said  to  her  when 
the  porter  had  carried  up  her  little  box  and  they 
were  left  alone  in  the  brocaded  and  gilded  salon  that 
separated  their  rooms;  "I  chose  this  place  for  the 
view;  it's  the  loveliest  in  Lyons,  I  think." 

There  was  still  a  little  twilight,  and  standing  at  the 
window  they  looked  down  at  the  lighted  quai  with 
its  double  row  of  lofty  plane-trees  and  across  the 
jade-green  Saone  at  St.  Jean,  the  grey  cathedral, 
and  at  the  beautiful  wThite  archeveche  glimmering 
in  a  soft,  dimmed  atmosphere  that  made  him  think 
of  London. 

"There's  a  horrible  modern  cathedral  up  on  the 
hill,"  he  said ;  "  but  we  don't  need  to  see  it.  We  need 
only  see  the  river  and  the  archeveche  and  St.  Jean. 
And  in  the  mornings  there's  a  market  below,  a  mile 
of  it,  all  under  huge  mushroom-coloured  um 
brellas;  flowers  and  cheeses  and  every  kind  of 
country  produce.  I  think  you'll  like  it  here." 

"I  like  it  very  much.  I  think  it's  beautiful," 
said  Adrienne.  "I  like  our  room,  too,"  and  she 
turned  and  looked  up  at  the  painted  ceiling  and 
round  at  the  consoles  and  mirrors,  inlaid  tables  and 
richly  curved,  brocaded  chairs.  "Isn't  it  splendid." 

"Madame  Recamier  is  said  to  have  lived  here," 
Oldmeadow  told  her.  "And  this  is  said  to  have  been 
her  room." 

"And   now  it's  mine,"   said   Adrienne,   smiling 


ADRIENNE  TONER  333 

slightly  as  though  she  found  the  juxtaposition 
amusing. 

Already  the  stealing  sense  of  deliciousness  was 
breathing  over  him.  The  very  way  in  which  she 
said,  "our  room,"  was  part  of  it.  Even  the  way  in 
which  she  said  that  made  him  feel  the  peace,  com 
fort,  and  charm  of  a  shared  life  as  he  had  never  be 
fore  felt  it.  And  the  sense  grew  and  grew  on  that 
first  evening. 

It  was  delicious  to  hear  the  waiters  address  her 
as  Madame,  and  to  know  that  it  was  his  madame 
they  imagined  her  to  be,  when  he  sat  opposite  to  her 
at  their  little  table  in  the  dining-room.  She  wore  a 
grey  dress  now  and,  with  her  quiet,  her  calm  glances 
cast  about  her,  might  indeed  have  been  the  veritable 
Madame  Oldmeadow  inscribed  at  the  bureau.  If 
they  had  the  aspect  of  a  devoted,  long-mated 
couple,  it  was  because  of  her  calm.  But  she  would 
have  been  as  unperturbed,  he  felt  sure,  had  she  been 
stopping  there  under  her  own  name  instead  of  his 
and  looked  upon  as  his  well-established  mistress. 
Situations  would  never  embarrass  her  as  long  as  she 
knew  what  she  was  doing  with  them.  That  night 
when  she  gave  him  her  hand  at  bedtime  she  said, 
looking  at  him  with  the  affectionate,  professional 
eyes:  "  I'll  come  and  put  you  to  sleep  if  you  need  me; 
be  sure  to  let  me  know." 

But  he  had  no  need  to  call  her.  He  slept  as 
soundly  as  though  she  sat  beside  him  with  her  hand 
upon  his  brow. 

So  the  mirage  of  conjugal  felicity  was  evoked 
about  him. 

She  poured  out  his  coffee  for  him  in  the  morning 
wearing  a  silk  neglige  edged  with  fur,  and  said,  as 


334  ADRIENNE  TONER 

they  buttered  their  rolls,  that  they  must  buy  some 
honey  for  their  breakfasts.  She  said,  too,  that  they 
must  do  a  great  deal  of  sight-seeing  in  the  after 
noons.  "There  is  so  much  to  be  seen  in  Lyons.  And 
I  shall  finish  with  my  rapatrie  work  in  the  mornings." 
He  asked  if  he  might  not  come  with  her  to  the  ra 
patrie  work,  but  was  told  that  he  was  not  yet  strong 
enough  for  more  than  one  walk  in  the  day.  "In 
our  evenings,  after  tea,"  she  went  on,  "I  thought 
perhaps  you'd  like  to  study  Dante  a  little  with  me. 
My  Dante  is  getting  so  rusty  and  I've  brought  a 
very  fine  edition.  Are  you  good  at  Italian?" 

He  said  he  wasn't,  but  would  love  to  read  Dante 
with  her. 

"And  we  must  get  a  piano,"  she  finished,  "and 
have  music  after  dinner.  It  will  be  a  wonderful 
holiday  for  me." 

So  the  days  fell  at  once  into  a  series  of  rituals. 
He  saw  that  she  had  always  mapped  them  out  con 
scientiously,  as  Mrs.  Toner  had  doubtlessly  taught 
her  to  do,  careful  of  the  treasure  of  time  —  as  Mrs. 
Toner  would  have  said  —  entrusted  to  each  soul 
by  life.  So,  no  doubt,  Adrienne  would  put  it  still. 
And  what  he  would,  in  first  knowing  her,  have  found 
part  of  her  absurdity,  he  found  now  part  of  her 
charm. 

That  was  what  it  all  came  back  to.  He  saw,  re 
constructing  their  past,  that  from  the  beginning 
she  had  had  her  deep  charm  for  him. 

It  was  the  trivial  word  for  the  great  fact ;  the  com 
pulsion  of  personality;  the  overflow  of  vitality;  the 
secret  at  once  of  the  saint  and  of  the  successful 
music-hall  singer.  Her  own  absorption  in  life  was 
so  intense  that  it  communicated  itself.  Her  con- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  335 

fidence  was  so  secure  that  it  begot  confidence.  Her 
power  was  implicit  in  all  she  did.  It  was  not  only 
the  rapatries  she  dealt  with,  as,  at  the  first,  she  had 
dealt  with  the  wounded.  She  dealt  as  successfully 
and  as  accurately  with  the  little  things  of  life.  Honey 
was  on  their  breakfast- table ;  flowers  on  the  consoles ; 
music  on  the  piano.  The  gilded  hotel  salon  became 
a  home. 

She  was  still,  in  demeanour,  the  cultured,  trav 
elled  American,  equipped  always,  for  their  walks, 
with  a  guide-book  or  history,  from  which  she  often 
read  to  him  as  they  paused  to  lean  on  the  parapets 
of  the  splendid  quais.  There  were  few  salient  facts 
in  the  history  of  the  potent  city  that  were  not  im 
parted  to  him ;  and  with  anyone  else  what  a  bore  it 
would  have  been  to  have  to  listen !  But  he  was  more 
than  content  that  she  should  tell  him  about  the  Ro 
mans  or  Richelieu.  It  wras  everything  to  him  to  feel 
that  they  shared  it  all,  from  the  honey  to  Richelieu. 

And  with  all  the  intimacy  went  the  extreme  re 
serve. 

She  had  showed  him,  when  it  was  necessary  for 
their  understanding  as  friends,  the  centre  of  her 
life;  yet  she  remained,  while  so  gentle,  so  absorbed, 
and  even  loving,  as  remote,  as  inaccessible,  as  he 
had  felt  her  to  be  on  those  first  days  in  the  hospital. 
She  never  referred  to  her  own  personal  situation  nor 
to  any  emotion  connected  with  it.  She  never  referred 
to  herself  or  expressed  a  taste  or  an  opinion  touched 
with  personal  ardour.  He  did  not  know  what  she 
was  really  feeling,  ever.  Though,  when  he  looked  at 
her,  sitting  opposite  him  in  her  grey  and  addressed 
by  the  assiduities  of  the  waiters,  he  could  imagine 
that  he  was  living  with  a  wife,  he  could  imagine 


336  ADRIENNE  TONER 

more  often  that  he  was  living  with  a  nun.  Her  con 
trol  and  her  selflessness  were  cloistral.  He  could 
not  think  her  in  any  need  of  a  director. 

They  walked  one  afternoon  along  the  Quai  des 
Brotteaux,  returning  from  the  park  of  the  Tete  d'Or, 
where  they  had  wandered  on  the  gravel  under  the 
tall,  melancholy  trees  and  fed  the  deer.  The  ugly 
yet  magnificent  city  was  spread  before  them  in  one 
of  its  most  splendid  aspects,  climbing  steeply,  on 
the  further  banks  of  the  Rhone,  to  the  cliff-like 
heights  of  the  Croix  Rousse  and  marching,  as  it 
followed  the  grandiose  curve  of  the  river,  into  a  sun 
set  sky  where  the  cupola  of  the  Hospice  hung  like 
'a  dark  bubble  against  the  gold  and  the  Alps,  not 
visible  from  the  river  level,  seemed  yet  to  manifest 
themselves  in  the  illumined  clouds  ranged  high 
above  the  horizon. 

Ten  days  of  their  appointed  fortnight  had  now 
passed  and  while  Oldmeadow  kept  a  half  unseeing 
yet  appraising  eye  upon  the  turbulent  glories  of  the 
river,  he  was  wondering  when  and  how  he  should 
make  his  revelation  and  his  appeal.  If  her  reserve 
made  it  more  difficult  to  imagine,  her  intimacy  did 
not  make  it  more  easy.  It  was  because  she  was  so 
intimate  that  she  had  remained  so  unaware.  For  all 
his  self-command  he  felt  sure  that  in  any  other  cir 
cumstances  she  could  not,  for  these  ten  days,  have 
remained  so  blind. 

Here  she  walked  beside  him,  the  Madame  Old- 
meadow  of  the  hotel,  looking  before  her  as  she 
walked  and  thinking,  he  would  have  wagered,  not 
of  him  but  of  Serbia. 

She  wore  a  beautifully  adjusted  little  costume, 
conveying  in  its  sober  darkness  the  impression  of 


ADRIENNE  TONER  337 

richness  and  simplicity  that  her  clothes  had  always 
given  him.  Fur  was  turned  up  about  her  ears  and  a 
small  hat  of  fur  and  velvet  was  turned  down  over 
her  eyes  as  she  had  always  worn  her  hats.  The 
straight  fringe  of  gold  showed  under  its  brim  and 
under  the  gold  were  those  calm,  those  questing, 
melancholy  eyes. 

Or  perhaps  —  he  carried  further  his  rueful  rev 
erie  —  she  was  thinking  about  the  date  of  the  Hos 
pice.  He  had  the  guide-book  in  his  pocket. 

"Isn't  it  jolly?"  he  suggested,  as  she  looked  up 
at  him,  indicating  the  prospect  spread  before  them 
and  adding,  since  he  knew  that  his  English  instinct 
for  boyish  understatement  still  puzzled  her:  "Like 
a  great,  grim  queen  in  shabby  clothes;  raised  on 
such  a  throne  and  crowned  with  such  jewels  that 
one  feels  her  glorious  rather  than  ugly." 

Adrienne  studied  the  shabby  queen  attentively 
and  then  looked  back  at  him.  Perhaps  something 
dwelling  in  his  eyes,  something  for  her  only  and  not 
at  all  for  Lyons,  caught  her  more  special  attention, 
for  she  said  suddenly,  and  so  unexpectedly  that, 
with  a  sort  of  terror,  he  felt  that  his  crisis  might  be 
coming:  "You've  been  very  dear  to  me,  Mr.  Old- 
meadow,  in  all  our  time  here.  I  feel  it  to  have  been 
a  great  privilege,  you  know;  a  great  opportunity." 

"  Really?  In  what  way  ?"  He  could  at  all  events 
keep  his  voice  quiet  and  light.  "I  thought  it  had 
been  you  who  made  all  the  opportunities." 

"Oh,  no.  I  never  make  any  of  the  opportunities  I 
am  thinking  of,"  said  Adrienne.  "  I  only  know  how 
to  take  them.  It  isn't  only  that  you  are  more  widely 
and  deeply  cultured  than  I  am  —  though  your  Ital 
ian  accent  isn't  good!" — she  smiled;  "but  I  al- 


338  ADRIENNE  TONER 

ways  feel  that  you  see  far  more  in  everything  than 
I  do,  even  when  you  seem  to  be  seeing  less.  I  have 
to  go  carefully  and  pick  up  fact  by  fact,  while  you 
see  things  in  a  sort  of  vision  and  they  are  all  related 
as  they  enter  your  mind.  That's  where  my  privilege 
comes  in.  You  make  me  share  your  vision  some 
times.  You  have  the  artistic  mind,  and  I  am  not 
really  artistic  at  all  —  though  Mother  always 
wanted  that  for  me  more  than  anything;  with  all 
that  goes  with  it." 

She  was  speaking  of  herself  —  though  it  was  only 
in  order  to  express  more  exactly  her  gratitude,  and, 
as  he  walked  beside  her,  he  was  filled  with  the 
mingled  hope  and  terror.  After  all  he  had  still  four 
more  days  of  her.  It  would  be  terrible  to  spoil  them. 

"No;  you  aren't  artistic,"  he  agreed.  "And  I 
don't  know  that  I  am,  either.  Whether  I  am  or  not, 
I  feel  mine  to  have  been  the  opportunity  and  the 
privilege." 

"I  can't  understand  that  at  all,"  she  said,  with 
her  patent  candour. 

"  It  may  be  part  of  the  artistic  temperament  to  feel 
things  one  can't  understand.  Though  I  do  under 
stand  why  I  feel  it,"  he  added. 

"And  it's  part  of  the  artistic  temperament  not 
to  try"  -  Adrienne  turned  their  theme  to  its  more 
impersonal  aspect.  "Never  to  try  to  enjoy  any 
thing  that  you  don't  enjoy  naturally.  I  don't  be 
lieve  I  ever  enjoy  any  of  the  artistic  things  quite 
naturally.  I've  always  been  trained  to  enjoy  and 
I've  always  tried  to  enjoy;  because  I  thought  it  was 
right  to  try.  But  since  I've  been  here  with  you  I've 
come  to  feel  that  what  I've  enjoyed  has  been  my 
own  effort  and  my  mastery  of  the  mere  study,  and 


ADRIENNE  TONER  339 

I  seem  to  feel  that  it  might  be  as  well  to  give  up 
trying  and  training  and  fall  back  on  the  things  that 
come  naturally;  scenery  artists  would  think  senti 
mental,  and  babies;  and  patriotic  songs."  She  smiled 
a  little  as  she  found  her  list.  But  she  was  grave, 
too,  thinking  it  out  and  adding  another  to  her  dis 
covered  futilities. 

"It  may  be  as  well  to  limit  your  attention  to  the 
sentimental  scenery  and  the  babies,  since  you've  so 
many  other  things  to  do  with  it,"  he  acquiesced. 
"We  come  back  to  big  people  again,  you  see;  they 
haven't  time  to  be  artistic;  don't  need  to  be." 

"Ah,  but  it's  not  a  question  of  time  at  all,"  said 
Adrienne,  and  he  remembered  that  long  ago,  from 
the  very  first,  he  had  said  that  she  wasn't  stupid. 
"  It's  a  question  of  how  you're  born.  That's  a  thing 
I  would  never  have  admitted  in  my  old  days,  you 
know.  I  would  never  have  admitted  that  any  hu 
man  soul  was  really  shut  out  from  anything.  Per 
haps  we're  not,  any  of  us,  if  we  are  to  have  all  eter 
nity  to  grow  in.  But  as  far  as  this  life  is  concerned 
I  see  quite  clearly  now  that  some  people  are  shut 
out  from  all  sorts  of  things,  and  that  the  sort  of  mis 
take  I  made  in  my  old  time  was  in  thinking  that  any 
one  who  had  the  will  could  force  eternity  into  any 
given  fragment  of  our  temporal  life.  I  did  do  a  little 
philosophy,  you  see!  That's  what  I  mean  and  you 
understand,  I  know.  All  the  same  I  wish  I  weren't 
one  of  the  shut-out  people.  I  wish  I  were  artistic. 
I'd  have  liked  to  have  that  side  of  life  to  meet 
people  with.  I  sometimes  think  that  one  doesn't  get 
far  with  people,  really,  if  all  that  one  has  to  give  are 
the  fundamental  things  like  the  care  of  their  minds 
and  bodies.  One  goes  deep,  of  course ;  but  one  doesn't 


340  ADRIENNE  TONER 

go  far.  You  can  do  something  for  them ;  but  there's 
nothing,  afterwards,  that  they  can  do  with  you ;  and 
it  makes  it  rather  lonely  in  a  way  —  when  one  has 
time  to  be  lonely." 

He  did  not  know,  indeed,  whether  she  saw  the 
beauty  of  the  scene  spread  before  them  as  they 
walked,  and  he  was  remembering,  with  a  sort  of 
tranced  tenderness,  the  flower-wreathed  shepherd 
ess  and  her  crook ;  and  Mrs.  Toner  with  her  lilies  and 
seagulls.  But  why  should  she  see  beauty  when  she 
made  it?  It  was  all  that  he  could  see  in  her  now. 

"What  you  can  do  for  them  afterwards  is  to  pour 
out  their  coffee  for  them  in  the  most  enhancing 
way,"  he  suggested,  "and  make  sight- seeing  a  pleas 
ure,  and  arrange  flowers  and  place  chairs  and  tables 
so  that  a  hotel  salon  becomes  loveable.  If  you  find 
the  person  to  whom  you  can  give  the  fundamental 
things  and  do  all  sorts  of  homely  things  with  after 
wards,  why  be  lonely?  We  are  very  happy  together, 
aren't  we?  We  get  a  great  deal  out  of  each  other. 
I  can  speak  for  myself,  at  all  events;  and  you've 
just  told  me  that  I  give  something,  too.  So  why 
should  you  go  off  to  Central  Europe  next  week? 
Why  not  go  back  with  me  to  the  South,"  he  finished, 
"and  wander  about  together  enjoying,  quite  nat 
urally,  the  sentimental  scenery?" 

He  held  his  breath  after  he  had  thus  spoken, 
wondering  with  intensity,  while  he  felt  his  heart 
beats,  what  she  would  make  of  it.  He  knew  what 
he  could  make  of  it,  seizing  his  opportunity  on  the 
instant,  if  only  she  would  recognize  the  meaning 
that  underlay  the  easy  words.  And  framed  in  the 
little  hat  on  the  background  of  transfigured  Lyons, 
Adrienne's  face  was  turned  towards  him  and,  after 


ADRIENNE  TONER  341 

he  had  made  his  suggestion,  she  studied  him  in  si 
lence  for  what  seemed  to  him  a  long  lapse  of  time. 
Then  she  said,  overwhelmingly: 

"That's  perfectly  lovely  of  you,  Mr.  Old- 
meadow." 

"Not  at  all;  not  perfectly  lovely  at  all,"  he 
stammered  as  he  contradicted  her  and  he  heard 
that  his  voice  sounded  angry.  "It's  what  I  want. 
I  want  it  very  much." 

"Yes.  I  know  you  do.  And  that's  what's  so 
lovely,"  said  Adrienne.  " I  know  you  want  it.  You 
are  sorry  for  me  all  the  time.  And  you  want  to 
cheer  me  up.  Because  you  feel  I've  lost  so  much. 
But,  you  know;  you  remember;  I  told  you  the  truth 
that  time.  I  don't  need  cheering.  I'm  not  unhappy. 
One  can  be  lonely  without  being  unhappy." 

"I'm  not  sorry  for  you,"  poor  Oldmeadow  re 
joined,  still  in  the  angry  voice.  "I'm  not  thinking 
of  you  at  all.  I'm  thinking  of  myself.  I'm  lonely, 
too,  and  I  am  unhappy,  even  if  you  aren't." 

She  stopped  short  in  her  walk.  He  saw  in  her 
eyes  the  swift,  almost  diagnosing  solicitude  that 
measured  his  need  and  her  own  capacity.  It  was  as 
though  his  temperature  had  gone  up  alarmingly. 

"Dear  Mr.  Oldmeadow,"  she  said;  and  then  she 
faltered;  she  paused.  She  no  longer  found  her 
remedies  easily.  "It's  because  you  are  separated 
from  your  own  life,"  she  did  find.  "  It's  because  all 
this  is  so  bitter  to  you ;  what  you  are  doing  now  - 
how  could  I  not  understand  ?  —  and  the  war,  that 
has  torn  us  all.  But  when  it's  over,  when  you  can 
go  home  again  and  take  up  your  own  big  life-work 
and  find  your  own  roots,  happiness  will  come  back; 
I'm  sure  of  it.  We  are  all  unhappy  sometimes, 


342  ADRIENNE  TONER 

aren't  we?  We  must  be;  with  our  minds  and  hearts. 
Our  troubled  minds;  our  lonely  hearts.  But  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do,  dear  Mr.  Oldmeadow,  that 
our  souls  can  find  the  way  out." 

Her  nature  expressed  itself  in  platitudes;  yet 
sometimes  she  had  phrases,  rising  from  her  heart 
as  if  from  a  fountain  fed  by  unseen  altitudes,  that 
shook  him  in  their  very  wording.  "Our  troubled 
minds.  Our  lonely  hearts,"  echoed  in  his  ears  while, 
bending  his  head  downwards,  he  muttered  stub 
bornly:  "My  soul  can't,  without  you." 

She  still  stood,  not  moving  forward,  her  eyes  raised 
to  his.  "  Please  don't  say  that,"  she  murmured,  and 
he  heard  the  trouble  in  her  voice.  "  It  can't  be  so, 
except  for  this  time  that  you  are  away  from  every 
body.  You  have  so  many  things  to  live  for.  So 
many  people  near  you.  You  are  such  a  big,  rare 
person.  It's  what  I  was  afraid  of,  you  know.  It 
happens  so  often  with  me;  that  people  feel  that. 
But  you  can't  really  need  me  any  longer." 

He  said  nothing,  still  not  raising  his  eyes  to  hers, 
and  she  went  on  after  a  moment.  "And  I  have  so 
many  things  to  live  for,  too.  You've  never  really 
thought  about  that  side  of  my  life,  I  know.  Why 
should  you?  You  think  of  any  woman's  life  —  isn't 
it  true?  —  as  not  seriously  important  except  on  its 
domestic  side.  And  you  know  how  important  I 
think  that.  But  it  isn't  so  with  me,  you  see.  I  have 
no  hearth  and  I  have  no  home;  I  have  only  my  big, 
big  life  and  it's  more  important  than  you  could  be 
lieve  unless  you  could  see  it  all.  When  I'm  in  it  it 
takes  all  my  mind  and  all  my  strength  and  I'm 
bound  to  it,  yes,  just  as  finally,  just  as  irrevocably 
as  a  wife  who  loves  is  bound  by  her  marriage  vows; 


ADRIENNE  TONER  34*3 

because  I  love  it.  Do  you  see?  They  are  waiting 
for  me  now.  They  need  me  now.  There  are  starving 
people,  dying  people;  and  confusion;  terrible  con 
fusion.  I  have  a  gift  for  all  that.  I  can  deal  with  it. 
Those  are  just  the  things  I  can  deal  with.  And  I 
mustn't  put  it  off  any  longer  —  when  our  time  is  up. 
I  must  leave  you,  my  dear,  dear  friend,  however 
much  I'd  love  to  stay." 

She  was  speaking  at  last  with  ardour,  and  about 
herself.  And  what  she  said  was  true.  He  had  never 
thought  about  her  work  except  in  the  sense  that  he 
thought  her  a  saint  and  knew  that  saints  did  good 
deeds.  That  she  was  needed,  sorely  needed,  by  the 
starving  and  dying,  was  a  fact,  now  that  it  was  put 
before  him,  silencing  and  even  shaming  him.  It 
gave  him,  too,  a  new  fear.  If  she  had  her  blindness, 
he  had  his.  His  hopes  and  fears,  after  all,  were  all 
that  he  had  to  think  of;  she  had  the  destinies  of 
thousands.  He  remembered  Sir  Kenneth's  tone  in 
speaking  of  her;  its  deep  respect.  Not  the  respect 
of  the  man  for  the  tender-hearted,  merciful  woman ; 
but  the  respect  of  a  professional  expert  for  another 
expert;  respect  for  the  proved  organizer  and  leader 
of  men. 

"I  have  been  stupid,"  he  said  after  a  moment. 
"It's  true  that  I've  been  thinking  about  you  solely 
in  relation  to  myself.  Would  you  really  love  to  stay  ? 
If  it  wasn't  for  your  work?  It  would  be  some  com 
fort  to  believe  that." 

"Of  course  I'd  love  to  stay,"  she  said,  eagerly 

scanning  his  face.    "I'd  love  to  travel  with  you - 

to  pour  out  your  coffee  in  Avignon,  Nimes,  Cannes 

-anywhere  you  liked.    I'd  love  our  happy  time 

here  to  go  on  and  on.    If  life  could  be  like  that;  if 


344  ADRIENNE  TONER 

I  didn't  want  other  things  more.  You  remember 
how  Blake  saw  it  all: 

'  He  who  bends  to  himself  a  joy 
Doth  the  winged  life  destroy." 

I  mustn't  try  to  bend  and  keep  this  lovely  time.  I 
must  let  it  fly  —  and  bless  it  as  it  goes.  And  so  it 
will  bless  me." 

She  seldom  made  quotations  nowadays.  For  this 
one  he  felt  a  gratitude  such  as  his  life  had  rarely 
known. 

"It's  been  a  joy  to  you,  too,  then?" 

"Of  course  it  has,"  said  Adrienne  smiling  at  him 
and  turning  at  last  towards  the  bridge  that  they 
must  cross.  "It's  been  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
things  that  has  ever  happened  to  me." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OLDMEADOW  sat  at  the  inlaid  table  in  the  gilded 
salon  on  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day.  He  had  two 
letters  to  write,  for,  as  he  had  put  off  speaking  to 
Adrienne  till  their  last  evening,  so  he  had  put  off 
writing  to  Barney  and  to  Lydia  Aldesey  till  this 
last  afternoon,  and  he  saw  now  how  difficult  it 
would  be  to  write  coherently  while  his  thoughts 
stretched  themselves  forward  to  those  few  hours 
of  the  night  when  his  fate  would  be  decided. 

Adrienne  had  gone  out.  She  had  written  her 
short  communication  to  Barney  and  brought  it  in 
with  its  envelope  and  laid  it  before  him,  asking  him 
in  the  voice  that,  again,  made  him  think  of  snow: 
"Is  that  quite  right?" 

It  was,  quite,  Re  told  her,  after  glancing  through 
it  swiftly.  It  stated,  in  the  most  colourless  terms, 
the  facts  that  Barney  was  to  take  to  his  solicitor. 
"Quite  right,"  he  repeated,  looking  up  at  her.  "Are 
you  going  out?  Will  you  post  it?  —  or  shall  I?" 

"Will  you  post  it  with  yours?  Yes.  I  must  go 
out.  But  I'll  try  to  be  back  by  tea-time.  It's  very 
disappointing;  our  last  afternoon.  But  that  poor 
woman  from  Roubaix  —  the  one  with  consumption 
up  at  the  Croix  Rousse  —  is  dying.  They've  sent  for 
me.  All  the  little  children,  you  remember  I  told  you. 
I'm  going  to  wire  to  Josephine  and  ask  her  if  she 
can  come  down  and  look  after  them  for  a  little 
while." 

"Josephine?"  he  questioned.  He  had,  till  now, 
entirely  forgotten  Josephine.  Adrienne  told  him 


346  ADRIENNE  TONER 

that  she  was  with  her  parents  in  a  provincial  town. 
"They  lost  their  only  son  and  are  very  sad.  Fine, 
brave  old  people.  He  is  a  baker,  the  old  father,  and 
makes  the  most  wonderful  bread.  I  went  to  see 
them  last  summer." 

Their  packing  was  done  and  the  room  denuded; 
the  men  had  taken  away  the  piano  that  morning. 
He  had  his  letters  to  write;  so  there  was  really  no 
reason  why  she  should  not  go.  And  there  was,  be 
sides,  nothing  that  they  had  to  say  to  each  other, 
except  the  one  thing  he  had  to  say. 

The  silence  that  overtakes  parting  friends  on  a 
station  platform  had  overtaken  them  since  the 
morning,  though,  at  lunch,  Adrienne  had  talked 
with  some  persistence  of  her  immediate  plans  and 
prospects  and  about  the  unit  of  doctors  and  nurses 
who  were  to  meet  her  in  Italy.  There  was  no 
reason  why  she  should  not  go,  and  he  would  even 
rather  she  did.  He  would  rather  see  no  more  of  her 
until  evening  when  everything  but  the  one  thing 
would  be  over  and  done  with.  And  so  he  was  left 
with  his  letters,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table 
over  the  hotel  paper  and  staring  out  at  the  Saone 
and  the  white  archeveche. 

Both  letters  were  difficult  to  write;  but  beside 
the  one  to  Lydia,  the  one  to  Barney  was  easy.  Bar 
ney,  after  all,  was  to  gain  everything  from  what  he 
had  to  tell  him,  and  Lydia  was  to  lose;  how  much 
was  Lydia  to  lose?  He  recalled  their  last  evening 
together  and  its  revelations  and  saw  that  the  old 
laughing  presage  was  now  more  than  fulfilled. 
Lydia  was  to  lose  more  than  her  toes  and  fingers;  in 
any  case.  Even  if  he  returned  to  her  alone,  she  cared 
for  him  too  much  not  to  feel,  always,  the  shadow  of 


ADRIENNE  TONER  347 

his  crippled  heart;  his  heart  not  only  crippled,  but 
occupied,  so  occupied  that  friendships,  however 
near,  became,  in  a  sense,  irrelevancies.  And  if  he 
returned  with  Adrienne  —  but  could  he  return  with 
Adrienne?  What  kind  of  a  life  could  he  and  Ad 
rienne  lead  in  London?  —  even  if  Lydia's  door,  gen 
erously,  was  opened  to  them,  as  he  believed  it  would 
be  —  knowing  her  generous. 

He  laid  down  his  pen  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
river  and  he  tried  to  see  Lydia  and  Adrienne  to 
gether.  But  it  was  a  useless  effort.  From  this 
strange  haven  of  the  Lyons  hotel  where  he  had 
spent  the  happiest  fortnight  of  his  life,  he  could  not 
see  himself  into  any  future  with  familiar  features. 
He  could  only  see  himself  and  Adrienne,  alone,  at 
hotels.  To  attempt  to  place  her  in  Lydia's  gener 
ous  drawing-room  was  to  measure  more  accurately 
than  he  had  yet  measured  it  the  abyss  that  separated 
him  from  his  former  life.  If  it  could  be  spanned ;  if 
Adrienne  could  be  placed  there,  on  the  background 
of  eighteenth-century  fans  and  old  glass,  she  be 
came  a  clipped  and  tethered  seagull  in  a  garden, 
awkward,  irrelevant,  melancholy.  Lydia  might  cease 
to  find  her  third-rate  and  absurd;  but  she  wouldn't 
know  what  to  do  with  her  any  more  than  she  would 
have  known  what  to  do  with  the  seagull.  So  what,  if 
Adrienne  became  his  wife,  remained  of  his  friend 
ship  with  Lydia? 

He  put  aside  the  unresolved  perplexity  and  took 
Barney  first. 

"My  dear  Barney,"  he  wrote,  —  "I  don't  think 
that  the  letter  Adrienne  has  written  to  you  will  sur 
prise  you  as  much  as  this  letter  of  mine.  You  will 
understand  from  hers  that  she  wishes  to  free  herself 


348  ADRIENNE  TONER 

and  to  free  you.  You  will  understand  that  that  is 
my  wish,  too.  She  only  tells  you  that  she  has  been 
staying  here  with  me,  for  a  fortnight,  as  my  wife; 
that's  for  your  solicitor;  you  will  read  between  the 
lines  and  know  that  it  seemed  worth  while  to  both 
of  us  to  make  the  necessary  sacrifice  in  order  to  gain 
so  much  for  you  and  for  her.  I  hope  that  you  and  my 
dear  Nancy  will  feel  that  we  are  justified,  and  that 
you  will  take  your  happiness  as  bravely  as  we  secure 
it  for  you.  You'll  know  that  our  step  hasn't  been 
taken  lightly. 

"But,  now,  dear  Barney,  comes  my  absolutely 
personal  contribution.  It  is  a  contribution,  for  it 
will  make  you  and  Nancy  happier  to  know  that  I 
have  as  much  to  gain  as  you  and  she.  I  have  fallen 
in  love  with  Adrienne  and  I  hope  that  I  may  win 
her  consent  to  be  my  wife.  Yes,  dear  Barney,  un 
believable  as  it  will  look  to  you,  there  it  is;  and  she 
dreams  of  it  as  little  as  you  could  have  dreamed  of 
it.  I  met  her  again,  as  her  letter  informs  you,  at  the 
Boulogne  hospital.  She  asked  me  to  say  nothing 
about  our  meeting.  She  wanted  to  disappear  out  of 
your  lives.  She  saved  my  life,  I  think,  and  I  saw  a 
great  deal  of  her.  What  I  found  in  her  that  I  had 
not  seen  before  I  need  not  say. 

"My  great  difficulty,  my  burden  and  perplexity 
now,  lie  in  the  fact  that  she  has  no  trace  of  feeling 
for  me  that  might  give  me  hope.  We  became,  at 
Boulogne,  the  best  of  friends;  such  friends  that  this 
plan  suggested  itself  to  her;  and  we  remain,  after 
our  fortnight  here,  the  best  of  friends;  and  that  is 
all.  Yet  I  have  hope,  unjustified  and  groundless 
though  it  may  be,  and  had  I  not  had  it  from  the 
beginning  I  couldn't  have  entered  upon  the  enter- 


ADRIENNE  TONER  349 

prise;  not  even  for  you  and  Nancy.  From  one 
point  of  view  it's  possible  that  you  may  feel  that 
I've  entered  upon  it  in  spite  of  you  and  Nancy. 
You  may  feel  inclined  to  repudiate  and  disown  the 
whole  affair  and  to  remain  unaware  of  it.  In  that 
case  it  would  come  down  to  an  appeal  from  me  to 
you  to  carry  it  through  for  my  sake.  But  from 
another  point  of  view  it  makes  it  easier  for  you; 
easier  for  you  to  accept,  since  my  hope  gives  integ 
rity  to  the  situation.  That's  another  thing  that 
decided  me.  If  it  had  been  mere  sham  I  don't  think 
I  could  have  undertaken  it.  Adrienne  felt  none  of 
my  scruples  on  this  score.  She  walked  over  legal 
and  conventional  commandments  like  a  saint  over 
hot  ploughshares.  But  I  haven't  her  immunities. 
I  should  have  felt  myself  badly  scorched,  and  felt 
that  I'd  scorched  you  and  Nancy,  if  my  hope  hadn't 
given  everything  its  character  of  bona  fides. 

"Dear  Barney,  dear  Nancy,  please  forgive  me 
if  I've  been  selfish.  It  hasn't  all  been  selfishness, 
that  I  promise  you;  it  was  in  hopes  for  you,  too; 
and  I  have  to  face  sacrifices.  The  worst  of  them 
will  be  that  if  Adrienne  takes  me  I'll  have  to  lose 
you.  You  can  measure  the  depth  of  my  feeling  for 
her  from  the  fact  that  I  can  make  such  sacrifices. 
Perhaps  you'll  feel  that  even  if  she  doesn't  take  me 
I'll  have  to  lose  you.  I  hope  not.  I  hope,  in  that 
case,  that  mitigations  and  refuges  will  be  found  for 
me  and  that  some  day  you'll  perhaps  be  able  to 
make  a  corner  in  your  lives  where  I  may  creep  and 
feel  my  wounds  less  aching.  In  any  case,  after  Ad 
rienne,  you  are  the  creatures  dearest  to  me  in  the 
world  and  I  am  always  and  for  ever  your  devoted 
friend,  ROGER." 


350  ADRIENNE  TONER 

And  now  Lydia.  There  was  no  use  in  thinking 
about  it.  The  plunge  must  be  taken. 

"My  dear  Lydia,"  he  wrote,  —  "I  have  fallen 
in  love  with  Adrienne  Toner.  I  feel  that  with  such 
a  friend  as  you  it's  better  to  begin  with  the  bomb 
shell.  She  doesn't  know  it,  and  if  we  are  here  in  this 
Lyons  hotel  together,  it's  only,  she  imagines,  be 
cause  she  wishes  to  set  Barney  free  and  that  I've 
undertaken,  for  her  sake  and  for  Barney's,  a  repug 
nant  task.  It  is  a  repugnant  task,  in  spite  of  what 
it  may  mean  to  me  of  happiness.  I  hate  it  for  her, 
and  for  Barney  and  for  myself.  But  since  she  was 
determined  on  it  and  since,  if  it  wasn't  I  it  was  to  be 
another  friend,  and  since  I  have  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  I  saw  that  it  was  only  decent  that  the  co-respond 
ent  in  the  case  should  be  the  man  who  married  her  af 
terwards.  For  I  hope  to  become  her  husband,  and  I 
haven't  one  jot  of  ground  for  my  hope.  We  are  study 
ing  Dante  together,  and  she  shows  me  the  sights 
of  Lyons.  She  is  just  the  same.  Yet  completely 
altered. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you'll  feel  you  can  ever 
see  me  again,  with  or  without  her.  I  don't  want  to 
cast  myself  too  heavily  on  your  compassion,  so  I'll 
only  remind  you  that  even  if  I  return  to  England 
alone  I  shall  probably  have  to  lose  Nancy  and  Bar 
ney  and  that  you  will  be  my  only  refuge.  It  will  be 
the  culmination  of  my  misfortunes  if  I  have  to  lose 
you. 

"Dear  Lydia,  I  am  always  your  devoted 

"ROGER" 

But  he  hadn't  lost  her.  He  knew  he  hadn't  lost 
her;  in  any  case.  And  the  taste  of  what  he  did  was 


ADR1ENNE  TONER  351 

sharp  and  bitter  to  him,  for  she  was  generous  and 
loyal  and  he  had  cut  off  her  very  limbs.  When  he 
had  addressed  and  stamped  the  letters  he  went 
downstairs,  and,  for  the  sense  of  greater  finality, 
carried  them  to  the  post  instead  of  dropping  them 
into  the  hotel-box. 

He  had  almost  the  sense  of  disembodiment  as  he 
returned  to  the  empty  and  dismantled  room.  He 
seemed  to  have  become  a  mere  consciousness  sus 
pended  between  two  states  of  being.  The  past  was 
gone.  He  had  dropped  it  into  the  post- box.  And  he 
saw  no  future.  He  felt,  for  the  moment,  no  hopes. 
At  the  moment  it  seemed  absurd  to  think  that  Ad- 
rienne  could  ever  love  him.  He  tried  to  picture 
Coldbrooks  and  Somer's  Place  when  the  bomb-shell 
struck  them.  Would  Barney  show  Nancy  the  letter? 
Nancy  would  be  pale,  aghast,  silent.  Barney  would 
have  to  wait  for  days,  perhaps,  before  saying  to  her: 
"But,  after  all,  it's  for  their  sakes,  too,  Nancy  dear. 
See  what  Roger  says."  Mrs.  Averil  would  cast  up 
her  hands  and  cry  "That  woman ! "  -  but,  perhaps, 
with  as  much  admiration  as  repudiation,  and  Meg, 
if  she  were  summoned  to  the  scene  of  confusion, 
would  say,  "So  she's  got  hold  of  Roger,  too."  Fun 
nily  enough  it  was  the  dear  March  Hare,  he  felt 
sure,  who  would  be  the  first  one  to  stretch  out  a 
hand  towards  the  tarnished  freedom.  "After  all, 
you  know,"  he  could  hear  her  murmuring,  "it 
would  be  much  nicer  for  Barney  and  Nancy  to  be 
married,  wouldn't  it?  And  Adrienne  wasn't  a  Chris 
tian,  you  know,  so  probably  the  first  marriage 
doesn't  really  count.  We  mustn't  be  conventional, 
Monica."  Yes,  perhaps  it  would  go  like  that  at 
Coldbrooks.  But  at  Somer's  Place  Lydia  would  sit 


352  ADRIENNE  TONER 

among  her  fans  and  glass  and  wish  that  they  had 
never  seen  Adrienne  Toner. 

He  paced  up  and  down  before  the  windows  and 
he  had  never  been  so  lonely  in  his  life.  He  was  so 
lonely  that  he  became  aware  at  last  that  his  mere 
negative  state  was  passing  into  a  positive  and  that 
grief  at  the  severance  of  old  ties  had  become  fear  of 
losing  Adrienne.  The  fear  and  the  loneliness  seemed 
actualized  when,  at  five,  the  waiter  appeared  bear 
ing  the  tea-tray  on  his  shoulder.  He  had  never  had 
tea  alone  before  in  this  strange,  foreign  room.  Ad 
rienne  always  made  a  complicated  and  charming 
ritual  of  the  occasion,  boiling  the  water  on  their  own 
little  spirit- kettle  and  measuring  the  tea  from  her 
own  caddy  —  the  very  same  kettle  and  caddy,  she 
told  him,  that  had  accompanied  herself  and  her 
mother  on  all  their  travels.  And  to  see  the  cups 
and  bread  and  butter  and  not  to  have  her  there, 
added  a  poignant  taste  of  abandonment  to  his  lone 
liness. 

She  kept  the  kettle  in  her  room  and  when  the  boy 
was  gone  he  softly  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  It 
would  keep  his  heart  up  to  have  the  water  boiling 
in  readiness  for  her  arrival.  He  recognized,  as  he 
stood,  then,  and  looked  about  him,  that  his  in 
stinct  had  also  been  that  of  taking  refuge.  In  her 
room  he  could  more  closely  recover  the  sense  of  her 
presence. 

She  had  finished  all  the  essentials  of  her  packing 
and  her  box  stood  with  its  lid  open  ready  for  the  last 
disposals.  Yet  the  room  seemed  still  full  of  her  per 
sonality.  He  noted  it  all  gazing  around  him  with 
eyes  almost  those  of  a  solemn  little  boy  permitted 
to  glance  in  at  a  Christmas-tree. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  353 

Her  dressing-table,  improvised  from  the  mantel 
piece,  was  neatly  laid  out  with  small,  worn,  costly, 
and  immaculate  appurtenances.  He  moved  forward 
and  looked  at  them,  not  touching.  The  initials 
intertwined  on  the  backs  of  the  ivory  brushes  were 
her  girlish  ones:  A.  T.  She  had  discarded,  long 
since,  no  doubt,  her  wedding  toilet  set. 

If  he  became  her  husband,  the  thought  crossed  his 
mind  and  quickened  his  heart,  he  might  brush  her 
hair  for  her,  that  wonderful  golden  hair,  before 
many  months  were  over. 

Near  the  ivory  hand-glass  stood  two  photographs 
in  a  folding  frame  of  faded  blue  leather.  He  stooped 
to  look  and  saw  that  one  was  of  Mrs.  and  the  other 
certainly  of  Mr.  Toner,  in  their  early  days.  Remote, 
mysterious  and  alien,  their  formally  directed  eyes 
looked  back  at  him  and  in  the  father's  ingenuous 
young  countenance,  surmounted  by  a  roll  of  hair 
that  was  provincial  without  being  exactly  rural,  the 
chin  resting  upon  a  large,  peculiar  collar,  he  could 
strangely  retrace  Adrienne's  wide  brow  and  stead 
fast  light-filled  eyes.  Mrs.  Toner  wore  a  ruffled 
dress  and  of  her  face  little  remained  distinct  but 
the  dark  gaze  —  forceful  and  ambiguously  gentle. 

The  room  was  full  of  the  fragrance  that  was  not 
a  fragrance  and  that  had,  long  ago,  reminded  him 
of  Fuller's  earth.  A  pair  of  small  blue  satin  mules 
stood  under  a  chair  near  the  bed. 

Only  after  he  had  withdrawn,  gently  closing  the 
door  behind  him,  did  he  realize  that  he  had  for 
gotten  the  kettle  and  then  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
go  back  again.  A  moment  after  the  boy  returned 
with  a  note,  sent,  by  hand,  he  was  informed,  from 
the  Croix  Rousse. 


354  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"I  am  so  dreadfully  sorry,  so  disappointed,"  he 
read.  "Our  last  afternoon,  but  I  can't  get  away  yet. 
Don't  wait  dinner  for  me,  if  I  should  be  late,  even 
for  that.  I  won't  be  very  late,  I  promise,  and  we  will 
have  our  evening." 

The  note  had  no  address.  He  rushed  forth  and 
down  to  find  the  messenger  gone.  Had  he  only 
known  where  to  seek  her  in  the  vast,  high,  melan 
choly  district  of  the  Croix  Rousse  he  would  have 
gone  to  join  her.  His  sense  of  loneliness  was  almost 
a  panic. 

Of  course,  he  tried  to  fix  his  mind  on  that  realiza 
tion,  as  he  went  back  to  the  salon,  her  rapatries  had 
no  doubt  preoccupied  her  mind,  from  the  first,  quite 
as  much  as  their  own  situation.  She  had  spoken  to 
him  in  especial  of  this  family  and  of  their  sorrows. 
One  child  they  had  left  dead  at  Evian  and  the 
mother,  on  the  eve  of  their  return  to  their  Northern 
home,  had  become  too  desperately  ill  to  travel. 
"Such  dear,  good,  gentle  people,"  he  recalled  her 
saying.  No;  he  must  not  repine.  After  all  he  had 
only  the  one  thing  to  say  to  her;  and  the  evening 
would  be  long  enough  for  that. 

It  was  nearly  seven  when  he  heard  her  quick 
footstep  outside.  When  she  entered,  the  brim  of 
her  little  hat,  in  the  electric  light,  cast  a  sharp 
shadow  over  her  eyes,  but  he  saw  at  once  that  she 
had  been  crying. 

She  came  in  so  quickly  that  he  had  not  time  to 
rise  and,  going  to  him,  behind  his  chair,  she  put  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders  and  pressed  him  down, 
saying:  "I'm  so  sorry  to  have  left  you  all  alone." 

It  was  astonishingly  comforting  to  have  her  put 
these  fraternal  hands  upon  him  like  this.  She  had 


ADRIENNE  TONER  355 

never  done  it  before.  Yet  there  was  a  salty  smart 
in  her  words  to  him.  What  else  did  she  intend  to  do 
but  leave  him  all  alone  for  always? 

"I'm  dreadfully  lonely,  I  confess,"  he  said,  "and 
I  see  that  you're  dreadfully  tired." 

She  went  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  table  and 
sat  down,  not  looking  at  him  and  said,  in  a  low  voice : 
"Oh  —  the  seas  —  the  seas  of  misery." 

"You  are  completely  worn  out,"  he  said.  He  was 
not  thinking  so  much  of  the  seas  of  misery  as  of  his 
few  remaining  hours.  Were  they  to  be  spoiled  by 
her  fatigue? 

"No;  not  worn  out.  Not  at  all  worn  out,"  said 
Adrienne,  stretching  her  arms  along  the  table  in 
front  of  her  as  she  sat,  and  though  she  had  wept  he 
could  see  something  of  ardour,  of  a  strength  re 
newed,  in  the  lines  of  her  pallid  lips.  "I've  sat 
quite  still  all  afternoon.  I've  been  with  him.  She 
died  soon  after  I  got  there.  At  the  end  she  was  talk 
ing  about  the  little  girl's  grave  at  Evian.  I  was  able 
to  comfort  her  about  that.  She  was  so  afraid  it 
would  not  be  tended.  That  it  would  have  no  flowers. 
Josephine  will  go  to  Evian  afterwards  and  see  about 
it.  There  are  always  dear  nuns  to  do  those  things. 
There  was  a  nun  with  her  to-day.  That  was  the 
greatest  comfort  of  all;  and  the  priest  who  came. 
But  I  was  with  the  father  and  the  five  poor  little 
children;  so  frightened  and  miserable.  I  could  not 
leave  them,  you  see.  He  talked  and  talked  and 
talked.  It  helped  him  to  talk  and  tell  me  about  their 
home  and  how  they  had  had  everything  so  nice  and 
bright.  Linen,  a  garden,  a  goat  and  fowls.  Oh,  if 
only  she  could  have  seen  her  home  again!  That 
was  what  he  kept  saying  and  saying.  They  were 


356  ADRIENNE  TONER 

full  of  hope  when  they  got  to  Evian.  He  told  me 
how  the  children  sang  at  dawn  when  the  train 
panted  up  the  mountain  among  the  golden  trees. 
Like  birds,  he  said,  and  Vive  la  France!  They  all 
believed  they  were  to  be  safe  and  happy.  Et,  Ma 
dame,  c'etait  notre  calvaire  qui  commencait  alors  seule- 
ment" 

She  spoke,  not  really  thinking  of  him,  he  saw, 
absorbed  still  in  the  suffering  she  had  just  left, 
measuring  her  power  against  such  problems  and 
the  worse  ones  to  which  she  was  travelling  to 
morrow. 

"Josephine  will  be  with  them,  I  hope,"  she  went 
on  presently,  "in  three  or  four  days.  She  will  help 
them  to  get  home  and  then  she  will  come  back  and 
go  to  see  about  the  grave  at  Evian.  Josephine  is  a 
tower  of  strength  for  me." 

Her  eyes  were  raised  to  him  now,  and,  as  they 
rested,  he  saw  the  compunction,  the  solicitude,  with 
which  they  had  met  him  on  her  entrance,  return  to 
them.  "I'm  not  so  very  late,  am  I?"  she  said, 
rising.  "I'll  take  off  my  hat  and  be  ready  in  a  mo 
ment." 

"Don't  hurry,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

She  was  tired,  more  tired  than  she  knew.  During 
dinner  she  hardly  spoke,  and,  finding  the  resolve 
suddenly,  he  said,  as  they  came  back  to  their  salon: 
"  Do  you  know  what  you  must  do  now.  Go  and  lie 
down  and  rest  for  an  hour.  Until  nine.  It's  not 
unselfishness.  I'd  rather  have  half  of  you  to  talk 
to  for  our  last  talk,  than  none  of  you  at  all." 

"How  dear  of  you,"  she  said.  She  looked  at  him 
with  gratitude  and,  still,  with  the  compunction. 
"It  would  be  a  great  rest.  It  would  be  better  for 


ADRIENNE  TONER  357 

our  talk.  I  can  go  to  sleep  at  once,  you  know.  Like 
Napoleon,"  she  added  with  a  flicker  of  her  playful 
ness. 

When  she  had  gone  into  her  room  Oldmeadow 
went  out  and  walked  along  the  quai.  The  night  was 
dark  and  dimmed  with  fog,  but  there  was  a  moon 
and  as  he  walked  he  watched  it  glimmer  on  the 
windows  of  St.  Jean.  He  seemed  to  see  the  august 
form  of  the  cathedral  through  a  watery  element  and 
the  grey  and  silver  patterns  of  the  glass  were  like 
the  scales  of  some  vast  fish.  A  sort  of  whale  waiting 
to  swallow  up  the  Jonah  that  was  himself,  he  re 
flected,  and,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  parapet  of 
the  quai,  the  analogy  carried  him  further  and  he  saw 
the  cathedral  like  a  symbol  of  Adrienne's  life  —  her 
"big,  big"  life  —  looming  there  before  him,  be 
coming,  as  the  moon  rose  higher,  more  and  more 
visible  in  its  austere  and  menacing  majesty.  What 
was  his  love  to  measure  itself  against  such  a  voca 
tion? —  for  that  was  what  it  came  to,  as  she  had 
said.  She  was  as  involved,  as  harnessed,  as  passion 
ately  preoccupied  as  a  Saint  Theresa.  How  could 
he  be  fitted  in  with  Serbia  and  all  the  hordes  of 
human  need  and  wretchedness  that  he  saw  her 
sailing  forward  to  succour?  He  knew  a  discourage 
ment  deeper  than  any  he  had  felt,  for  he  was  not  a 
doctor  and  his  physical  strength  was  crippled  by 
his  wounds;  and,  shaking  his  shoulders  in  the  chilly 
November  air,  he  turned  his  back  on  the  cathedral 
and  leaned  against  the  parapet  to  look  up  through 
leafless  branches  where  the  plane  tassels  still  hung, 
at  the  lighted  windows  of  the  hotel;  their  hotel, 
where  the  room,  still  theirs,  waited  for  them.  He 
felt  himself  take  refuge  in  the  banal  lights.  After 


358  ADRIENNE  TONER 

all,  she  wasn't  really  a  Saint  Theresa.  There  was 
human  misery  everywhere  to  succour.  Couldn't  she, 
after  a  winter  in  Serbia,  found  creches  and  visit 
slums  in  London?  The  masculine  scepticism  she 
had  detected  in  him  had  its  justification.  Women 
weren't  meant  to  go  on,  once  the  world's  crisis  past, 
doing  feats  of  heroism;  they  weren't  meant  for  aus 
tere  careers  that  gave  no  leisure  and  no  home.  The 
trivial  yet  radiant  vision  of  intimacy  rose  again  be 
fore  him.  She  slept  there  above  him  and  he  was 
guarding  her  slumber.  He  would  always  watch  over 
her  and  guard  her.  He  would  follow  her  round  the 
world,  if  need  be,  and  brush  her  hair  for  her  in  Ser 
bia  or  California. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  gilt  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  pointed  to  nine, 
but  when  he  went  to  Adrienne's  door  and  listened 
there  was  no  sound  within  her  room,  and  his  heart 
sank  as  he  wondered  if  she  might  not  sleep  on,  in 
her  fatigue,  sleep  past  all  possible  hour  for  their  col 
loquy.  Yet  he  did  not  feel  that  he  could  go  in  and 
wake  her.  The  analogy  of  the  cathedral  loomed  be 
fore  him.  It  would  be  like  waking  Saint  Theresa. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  empty,  glittering 
salon ;  walked  and  walked  until  the  clock  struck  ten. 
Desperation  nerved  him  then  and  he  went  again  to 
her  door  and  knocked. 

With  hardly  a  pause  her  voice  answered  him;  yet 
he  knew  that  he  had  awakened  her  and  it  echoed  for 
him  with  the  pathos  of  so  many  past  scenes  of  emer 
gency  when  it  must  so  have  answered  a  summons 
from  oblivion:  "Coming,  coming."  Among  bomb 
ings,  he  reflected;  and  sudden  terrible  influxes  of 
dying  men  from  the  front. 

"Coming,"  he  heard  her  repeat,  on  a  note  of  dis 
may.  She  had  sprung  up,  turned  on  her  light  and 
seen  the  hour. 

He  was  reminded  vividly,  as  he  saw  her  enter  — 
and  it  was  as  if  a  great  interval  of  time  had  separated 
them  —  of  his  first  meeting  with  her.  She  was  so 
changed;  but  now  as  then  she  was  more  composed 
than  anyone  he  had  ever  met. 

But  it  was  of  much  more  than  the  first  meeting 
that  the  pale,  still  face  reminded  him.  His  dreams 
were  in  it;  the  dream  where  she  had  come  to  him 


360  ADRIENNE  TONER 

along  the  terrace,  lifting  her  hand  in  the  moonlight ; 
and  the  dream  of  horror  when  he  had  again  and 
again  pushed  it  down  to  drown. 

"I'm  so  ashamed,"  she  said,  and  he  saw  that  it 
was  with  an  effort  she  smiled.  The  traces  of  her 
weeping  were  now,  after  her  sleep,  far  more  visible, 
ageing  her,  yet  making  her,  too,  look  younger;  like 
a  child  with  swollen  lids  and  lips.  "I  didn't  know  I 
was  so  tired.  I  slept  and  slept.  I  didn't  stir  until  I 
heard  your  knock.  Never  mind.  We'll  talk  till  mid 
night." 

She  was  very  sorry  for  him. 

She  sat  down  at  the  table  and  under  the  electric 
chandelier  her  braided  hair  showed  itself  all  ruffled 
and  disarranged.  She  had  on  her  dark  travelling 
dress  and  she  had  thrust  her  feet  into  the  pale  blue 
satin  mules.  The  disparity  of  costume  in  one  so 
accurate,  her  air  of  readiness  for  the  morrow,  made 
him  feel  her  transitoriness  almost  more  than  her 
presence,  though  his  sense  of  that  pressed  upon  him 
with  a  stifling  imminence.  Even  though  she  sat 
there  the  room  kept  its  look  of  desolate,  glittering 
emptiness  and  more  than  their  shared  life  in  it  he 
remembered  the  far  places  from  which  she  had 
come  and  to  which  she  was  going.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  just  arrived  and  were  pausing  for  the  night  en 
route. 

As  he  had  seen  them  years  ago,  so  he  saw  again 
the  monster  engines  crossing  the  prairies  at  night 
and  flying  illumined  pennons  of  smoke  against  the 
sky  as  they  bore  her  away  from  blue  seas,  golden 
sands,  a  land  where  the  good  and  gifted  lurked  be 
hind  every  bush ;  and  before  her  stretched  the  shin 
ing  rails,  miles  and  miles  of  them,  running  through 


ADRIENNE  TONER  361 

ruin  and  desolation,  that  were  to  bear  her  ever  on 
wards  into  the  darkness.  This  was  what  life  had 
brought  her  to.  She  had  been  only  a  sojourner 
among  them  at  Coldbrooks.  The  linked  life  of  order 
and  family  affection  had  cast  her  forth  and  he  saw 
her,  for  ever  now,  unless  he  could  rescue  her,  with 
only  hotels  to  live  in  and  only  the  chaos  she  was  to 
mould,  to  live  for.  She  seemed  already,  as  she  sat 
there  under  the  light  with  her  ruffled  hair,  to  be 
sitting  in  the  train  that  was  to  bear  her  from  him. 

"I  think  you  owe  me  till  midnight,  at  least,"  he 
said.  He  had  not  sat  down.  He  stood  at  some  little 
distance  from  her  leaning,  his  arms  folded,  against 
a  gilded  and  inlaid  console.  "We've  lots  of  things 
to  talk  about." 

"Have  we?"  Adrienne  asked,  smiling  gently,  but 
as  if  she  humoured  an  extravagance.  "We'll  be  to 
gether,  certainly,  even  if  we  don't  talk  much.  But  I 
have  some  things  to  say,  too." 

She  had  dropped  her  eyes  to  her  hands  which  lay, 
lightly  crossed,  on  the  table  before  her,  and  she 
seemed  to  reflect  how  best  to  begin.  "It's  about 
Nancy  and  Barney,"  she  said.  "  I  wanted,  before  we 
part,  to  talk  to  you  a  little  about  them.  There  are 
things  that  trouble  me  and  you  are  the  only  person 
with  whom  I  can  keep  in  touch.  You  will  know  how 
I  shall  be  longing  to  hear,  everything.  You'll  let 
me  know  at  once,  won't  you?" 

"At  once,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

"There  might  be  delays  and  difficulties,"  Ad 
rienne  went  on.  "I  shall  be  very  troubled  until  all 
that  is  clear.  And  then  the  money.  You  know 
about  the  money?  Barney  isn't  well  off  and  he  was 
worse  off  after  I'd  come  and  gone.  I  tried  to  arrange 


362  ADRIENNE  TONER 

that  as  best  I  could.  Palgrave  understood  and 
entered  into  all  my  feelings." 

"Yes;  I'd  heard.  You  arranged  it  all  very  clev 
erly,"  said  Oldmeadow. 

He  moved  away  now  and,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  his  back  to  her,  came  to  a  standstill,  while  his 
eyes  dwelt  on  a  large  gilt-framed  engraving  that 
hung  there;  some  former  Salon  triumph;  a  festive, 
spring-tide  scene  where  young  women  in  bustles  and 
bonnets  offered  sugar  to  race-horses  in  a  meadow, 
admired  by  young  men  in  silk  hats. 

"Do  you  think  this  may  make  a  difficulty?"  Ad- 
rienne  asked.  "Make  him  more  reluctant  to  take 
what  is  to  come  to  him?  It's  Mrs.  Chadwick's  now, 
you  know." 

"  You've  arranged  it  all  so  well,"  said  Oldmeadow, 
noting  the  gardenias  in  the  young  men's  button 
holes,  "  that  I  don't  think  they  can  get  away  from  it." 

"But  will  they  hate  it  dreadfully?"  she  insisted, 
and  he  felt  that  her  voice  in  its  added  urgency  pro 
tested,  though  unconsciously,  against  his  distance; 
"  I  seem  to  see  that  they  might.  If  they  can't  take 
it  as  a  sign  of  accepted  love,  won't  they  hate  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Oldmeadow,  trying  to  reflect, 
though  his  mind  was  far  from  Barney  and  Nancy, 
"dear  Eleanor  Chadwick  doesn't  mind  taking  it, 
whatever  it's  a  sign  of.  And  since  it  will  come  to 
Barney  through  her,  I  don't  think  there'll  be 
enough  personality  left  hanging  about  it  to  hurt 
much." 

"I  wish  they  could  take  it  as  a  sign  of  accepted 
love,"  Adrienne  murmured. 

"Perhaps  they  will,"  he  said.  "I'll  do  my  best 
that  they  shall,  I  promise  you." 


ADRIENNE  TONER  363 

It  was  one  thing  to  promise  it  and  another  to 
know  his  hope  that  it  might  be  a  promise  never  to 
be  redeemed.  The  cross-currents  in  his  own  thought 
made  him  light-headed  as  he  stood  there,  his  back 
to  her,  and  examined  the  glossy  creatures  in  the 
meadow.  "Do  you  think  it  will  all  take  a  long 
time?"  Adrienne  added,  after  a  little  pause.  "Will 
they  be  able  to  marry  in  six  or  eight  months,  say?" 

"It  depends  on  how  soon  Barney  takes  action. 
Say  about  a  year,"  he  suggested.  "They'd  wait  a 
little  first,  wouldn't  they?" 

"I  hope  not.  They've  waited  so  long  already.  I 
hope  it  will  be  as  soon  as  possible.  I  shall  feel  so 
much  more  peaceful  when  I  hear  they're  married. 
Could  you,  perhaps,  make  them  see  that,  too?" 

And  again  he  promised.  "I'll  make  them  see 
everything  I  can." 

He  turned  to  her  at  last.  She  sat,  her  face  still 
downcast  in  its  shadow,  while  the  light  glittered  on 
her  wreaths  of  hair.  Her  hands  still  lay  before  her 
on  the  table,  and  the  light  fell  on  her  wedding-ring. 
Perhaps  she  was  looking  at  the  ring. 

"  It  all  depends  on  something  else,"  he  heard  him 
self  say  suddenly. 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  round  at  him. 
His  attitude,  his  distance  from  her,  drew  her  atten 
tion  rather  than  his  words,  for  she  repeated  mildly: 
"On  something  else?" 

"Whether  I  can  keep  those  promises,  you  know," 
said  Oldmeadow.  "Yes,  it  all  depends  on  some 
thing  else.  That's  what  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about." 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying  as  he  ap 
proached  the  table  and  pushed  the  brocaded  chair, 


364  ADRIENNE  TONER 

companion  to  the  one  in  which  she  sat,  a  little  from 
its  place.  He  leaned  on  its  back  and  looked  down 
at  her  hands  and  Adrienne  kept  her  eyes  on  him, 
attentive  rather  than  perplexed. 

"May  I  talk  to  you  about  it  now?"  he  asked. 
"It's  something  quite  different." 

"Oh,  do,"  said  Adrienne.  She  drew  her  hands 
into  her  lap  and  sat  upright,  in  readiness.  And, 
suddenly,  as  he  was  silent,  she  added:  "About  your 
self?  I've  been  forgetting  that,  haven't  I?  I've 
only  been  thinking  of  my  side.  You  have  quite 
other  plans,  perhaps.  Perhaps  you're  not  going 
back  to  England  for  ever  so  long.  Is  it  an  appoint 
ment?" 

"No;  not  an  appointment,"  he  muttered,  still 
looking  down,  at  the  table  now,  since  her  hands 
'were  no  longer  there.  "But  perhaps  I  shan't  be 
going  back  for  a  long  time.  I  hope  not." 

"Oh,"  she  murmured.  And  now  he  had  perplexed 
her.  After  what  he  had  just  promised  her,  his  hope 
must  perplex  and  even  trouble  her.  "Do  tell  me," 
she  said. 

"It's  something  I  want  to  ask  you,"  said  Old- 
meadow —  "And  it  will  astonish  you.  You  may 
find  it  hard  to  forgive;  because  I've  meant  to  ask 
it  from  the  beginning;  from  our  deciding  to  go 
away  together.  As  far  back  as  the  time  in  the  hos 
pital." 

"But  you  may  ask  anything.  Anything  at  all," 
she  almost  urged  upon  him.  "After  what  I've  asked 
you  —  you  have  every  right.  If  there's  anything 
I  can  do  in  the  wide,  wide  world  for  you  —  oh !  you 
know  how  glad  and  proud  I  should  be.  As  for  for 
giveness"  —  he  heard  the  smile  in  her  voice,  she  was 


ADRIENNE  TONER  365 

troubled,  yet  tranquil,  too  —  "you're  forgiven  in 
advance." 

"Am  I?  Wait  and  see."  He,  too,  tried  to  smile, 
as  he  used  the  tag;  but  it  was  a  mechanical  smile 
and  he  felt  his  heart  knocking  against  the  chair- 
back  as  he  went  on:  "Because  I  haven't  done  what 
you  asked  me  to  do  as  you  asked  me  to  do  it.  I 
haven't  done  it  from  the  motive  you  supposed.  It's 
been  for  Barney  and  for  Nancy  and  for  you ;  but  it's 
been  most  of  all  for  myself."  He  screwed  his  glass 
into  his  eye  as  he  spoke  with  a  gesture  as  mechan 
ical  as  the  smile  had  been  and  he  looked  at  her  at 
last,  thus  brought  nearer.  "I  want  you  not  to  go 
on  to-morrow."  It  was  the  first,  the  evident,  the 
most  palpable  desire  that  rose  to  his  lips.  "I  want 
you  never  to  go  on  again,  alone.  If  you  can't  stay 
with  me,  I  want  you  to  let  me  follow  you.  When  the 
time  comes  I  want  you  to  marry  me.  I  love  you." 

The  light  as  it  fell  on  her  seemed  suddenly 
strange,  almost  portentous  in  its  brilliancy.  Or  was 
it  her  stillness,  as  she  sat  and  gazed  at  him  after  he 
had  spoken  the  words,  that  was  strange  and  porten 
tous?  It  was  as  if  they  arrested  the  currents  of  her 
being  and  she  sat  tranced,  frozen  into  the  fixed  shape 
of  an  astonishment  too  deep  for  emotion.  Her  eyes 
did  not  alter  in  their  gentleness;  but  the  gentleness 
became  tragic  and  pitiful,  like  the  inappropriate 
calm  on  the  mask  of  a  dead  face  at  Pompeii,  fixed 
in  an  eternal  unreadiness  by  the  engulfing  lava. 

She  put  up  her  hand  at  last  and  pushed  back  her 
hair.  With  her  forehead  bared  she  became  more 
like  the  photograph  of  her  father.  When  she  spoke 
her  voice  was  slow  and  feeble,  like  the  voice  of  a  per 
son  dangerously  ill.  "  I  don't  understand  you." 


366  ADRIENNE  TONER 

"Try  to,"  said  Old  meadow.  "You  must  begin  far 
back." 

She  still  kept  her  hand  pressed  upon  her  hair. 
"You  don't  mean  that  it's  the  conventionally 
honourable  thing  to  do?  Oh,  no;  you  don't  mean 
that?"  Her  face  in  its  effort  to  understand  was 
appalled. 

"No;  I  don't  mean  anything  conventional,"  he 
returned.  "I'm  thinking  only  of  you.  Of  my  love. 
I'll  come  with  you  to  Serbia  to-morrow  —  if  you'll 
let  me.  I  could  kneel  and  worship  you  as  you  sit 
there." 

"Oh,"  she  more  feebly  murmured.  She  sank  back 
in  her  chair. 

"  My  darling,  my  saint,"  said  Oldmeadow,  gazing 
at  her;  "if  you  must  leave  me,  you'll  take  that  with 
you;  that  the  man  who  destroyed  you  is  your  lover; 
that  you  are  dearer  to  him  than  anything  on  earth." 

"Oh,"  she  murmured  again,  and  she  put  her 
hands  before  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  hidden;  she 
had  spoken  no  word  of  reproach  and  he  could  not 
keep  himself  from  her.  He  knelt  beside  her,  grasp 
ing  the  chair  across,  behind  her.  She  was  so  near 
that  he  could  have  laid  his  head  upon  her  breast. 
"Don't  leave  me,"  he  heard  his  pleading  voice,  but 
she  seemed  so  much  nearer  than  his  own  voice;  "or 
let  me  come.  Everything  shall  be  as  you  wish  and 
when  you  wish.  Tell  me  that  you  care,  too;  or  that 
you  can  come  to  care.  Tell  me  that  you  can  think 
of  me  as  your  husband." 

She  was  there,  with  her  hidden  eyes,  within  his 
arms,  and  inevitably  they  closed  around  her,  and 
though  he  heard  her  murmur,  "Please,  please, 
please,"  he  could  not  relinquish  her.  She  was  free 


ADRIENNE  TONER  367 

and  he  was  free.  They  had  cut  themselves  off  from 
the  world.  They  were  alone  in  the  strange  city;  in 
the  strange,  bright,  hallucinated  room ;  and  he  knew 
from  the  ache  and  rapture  of  her  nearness  how  he 
had  craved  it. 

But,  gently,  he  heard  her  say  again,  "Please," 
and  gently  she  put  him  from  her  and  he  saw  her 
face,  and  her  eyes  full  of  grief  and  gentleness.  "  For 
give  me,"  she  said. 

"My  darling.  For  what?"  he  almost  groaned. 
"Don't  say  you're  going  to  break  my  heart." 

She  kept  her  hand  on  his  breast,  holding  him 
from  her  while  she  looked  into  his  eyes.  "It  is  so 
beautiful  to  be  loved,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was 
still  the  slow,  feeble  voice  of  exhaustion.  "Even 
when  one  has  no  right  to  be.  Don't  misunderstand. 
Even  when  one  may  not  love  back;  not  in  that  way. 
Forgive  me;  not  in  that  way;  my  dearest  friend." 

"Why  mayn't  you  love  back?  Why  not  in  that 
way?  If  it's  beautiful,  why  mayn't  you?" 

"Sit  there,  will  you?  Yes;  keep  my  hand.  How 
weak  I've  been,  and  cruel.  It  can't  be.  Don't  you 
know?  Haven't  you  seen?  It  has  always  been  for 
him.  He  must  be  free;  but  I  can  never  be  free." 

"Oh,  no.  No.  That's  impossible,"  Oldmeadow 
said,  leaning  towards  her  across  the  table  and  keep 
ing  her  hand  in  both  of  his.  "  I  can't  stand  that.  I 
could  stand  your  work,  your  vocation,  better.  But 
not  Barney,  who  loves  another  woman.  That's  im 
possible." 

"But  it  is  so,"  she  said,  softly,  looking  at  him. 
"Really  it  is  so." 

"No,  no,"  Oldmeadow  repeated,  and  he  raised 
her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kept  it  there,  a  talisman 


368  ADRIENNE  TONER 

against  the  menace  of  her  words.  "He  lost  you. 
He's  gone.  I've  found  you  and  you  care  for  me. 
You  can't  hide  from  me  that  you  care  for  me.  Just 
now.  For  those  moments.  You  were  mine." 

"No,"  she  repeated.  "  I  was  weak  and  cruel,  but 
I  was  not  yours." 

She  had  been  incredibly  near  so  short  a  time  ago 
before.  Now,  looking  at  him,  with  her  difficult 
breaths  and  gentle,  inflexible  eyes,  she  was  in 
credibly  remote.  "I  am  his,  only  his,"  she  said. 
"I  love  him  and  I  shall  always  love  him.  It  makes 
no  difference.  He  loves  Nancy,  but  it  makes  no  dif 
ference.  He  is  my  husband.  The  father  of  my 
baby." 

She  tried  to  speak  on  steadily  while  she  thus  gave 
him  the  truth  that  ended  all  his  hope;  but  the  des 
perate  emotion  with  which  he  received  it  made  real 
and  overpowering  to  her  her  outlived  yet  living 
sorrow.  With  all  that  she  must  relinquish  laid  bare 
to  her  in  the  passion  of  his  eyes  she  could  measure 
all  that  she  had  lost,  as  she  had,  perhaps,  till  then, 
never  measured  it.  "Don't  you  know?"  she  said. 
"Don't  you  see?  My  heart  is  broken,  broken, 
broken." 

She  put  her  head  down  on  her  arms  as  she  said 
the  words  and  he  heard  her  bitter  weeping. 

He  knew,  as  he  listened,  that  it  was  all  over  with 
him.  Dimly,  in  the  terrible  suffering  that  wrenched 
at  him,  he  received  his  further  revelation  of  the 
nature  already  nearer  him  than  any  in  the  world. 
Her  strength  would  be  in  all  she  did  and  felt.  She 
had  loved  Barney  and  she  would  always  love  him. 
Her  marriage  had  been  to  her  an  ultimate  and  in 
dissoluble  experience.  That  was  why  she  had  been 


ADRIENNE  TONER  369 

so  blind.  She  could  not  have  thought  of  herself  as  a 
woman  to  be  again  loved  and  wooed. 

Her  hair  lay  against  his  hands,  still  holding  hers, 
and  he  found  himself  stroking  it,  without  tenderness 
or  solicitude  it  seemed.  It  seemed  to  be  only  auto 
matically  that  his  fingers  passed  across  it,  while  he 
noted  its  warmth  and  fineness  and  bright,  lovely 
colour,  remembering  that  he  had  thought  it  at  the 
first  her  one  indubitable  beauty. 

They  sat  there  thus  for  a  long  time.  The  gilt 
clock  paused,  choked,  then  in  a  voice  of  hurrying, 
hoarsened  silver  rang  out  eleven  strokes.  Footsteps 
passed  and  faded  up  the  corridor;  doors  closed.  A 
tramway  on  the  qua!  clashed  and  clanged,  came  to 
a  noisy  standstill,  and  moved  on  again  with  a  rat 
tling  of  cables  and  raucous  blasts  from  a  horn;  and 
in  the  profound  silence  that  followed  he  seemed  to 
hear  the  deep  old  river  flowing. 

" Really,  you  see,  it's  broken,"  said  Adrienne. 
She  had  ceased  to  weep,  but  she  still  leaned  forward, 
her  head  upon  her  folded  arms.  "You  saw  it  hap 
pen,"  she  said.  "That  night  when  you  found  me  in 
the  rain." 

"I've  seen  everything  happen  to  you,  haven't 
I?"  said  Oldmeadow. 

"Yes,"  she  assented.  "Everything.  And  I've 
made  you  suffer,  too.  Isn't  that  strange;  everybody 
who  comes  near  me  I  make  suffer." 

"Well,  in  different  ways,"  he  said.  "Some  because 
you  are  near  and  others  because  you  won't  be." 

His  voice  was  colourless.  His  hand  still  passed 
across  her  hair. 

"  Don't  you  see,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "that 
it  couldn't  have  been.  Try  to  see  that  and  to  accept 


370  ADRIENNE  TONER 

it.  Not  you  and  me.  Not  Barney's  friend  and  Bar 
ney's  wife.  In  every  way  it  couldn't  have  done, 
really.  It  makes  no  difference  for  me.  I'm  a  de- 
racinee,  as  I  said.  A  wanderer.  But  what  would 
have  become  of  you,  all  full  of  roots  as  you  are? 
You  can  live  it  down  without  me.  You  never  could 
have  with.  And  how  could  you  have  wandered  with 
me?  For  that  must  be  my  life." 

"You  know,  it's  no  good  trying  to  comfort  me," 
said  Oldmeadow.  "What  I  feel  is  that  any  roots  I 
have  are  in  you." 

"They  will  grow  again.  The  others  will  grow 
again." 

"I  don't  want  others,  darling,"  said  Oldmeadow. 
"You  see,  my  heart  is  broken,  too." 

She  lifted  her  head  at  last  and  he  saw  her  marred 
and  ravaged  face. 

"It  can't  be  helped,"  he  tried  to  smile  at  her. 
"You  weren't  there  to  be  recognized  when  I  first 
met  you  and  now  that  you  are  there,  I've  come  too 
late.  I  believe  that  if  I'd  come  before  Barney,  you'd 
have  loved  me.  It's  my  only  comfort." 

"Who  can  say,"  said  Adrienne.  Her  gaze,  as  she 
looked  at  him,  was  deep  with  the  mystery  of  her 
acceptance.  "Perhaps.  It  seems  to  me  all  this  was 
needed  to  bring  us  where  we  are  —  enmity  and 
bitterness  and  grief.  And  my  love  for  Barney,  too. 
Let  me  tell  you.  It's  in  the  past  that  I  think  of  him. 
As  if  he  were  dead.  It's  something  over;  done  with 
for  ever;  yet  something  always  there.  How  can  one 
be  a  mother  and  forget?  Even  when  he  is  Nancy's 
husband  and  when  she  is  a  mother,  I  shall  not  cease 
to  feel  myself  his  wife.  Perhaps  you  think  that 
strange,  after  Meg  and  what  I  believed  right  for 


ADRIENNE  TONER  371 

her.  But  it  is  quite  clear  to  me,  and  simple.  It  isn't 
a  thing  of  laws  and  commandments ;  only  of  our  own 
hearts.  If  we  can  love  again,  we  may.  But  for  me  it 
would  be  impossible.  With  me  everything  was  in 
volved.  I  couldn't,  ever,  be  twice  a  wife." 

Silence  fell  between  them. 

"I'll  see  about  the  little  girl's  grave,"  said  Old- 
meadow  suddenly.  He  did  not  know  what  had 
made  him  think  of  it.  Perhaps  something  that  had 
gone  on  echoing  in  him  after  she  had  spoken  of  her 
maternity.  "I'll  go  to  Evian  to-morrow.  It  will 
spare  Josephine  the  journey  and  give  me  something 
to  do.  You'll  tell  me  the  name  and  give  me  the  di 
rections  before  you  go." 

Tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  him;  but 
they  did  not  fall.  They  could  need  no  controlling. 
The  springs  of  weeping  must  be  nearly  drained. 
"Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  she  looked  away,  seem 
ing  to  think  intently. 

It  was  now  too  late  for  the  tramways.  They  had 
ceased  to  crash  and  rattle  by,  but  a  sound  of  belated 
singing  passed  along  the  quais,  melancholy  in  its  in 
duced  and  extravagant  mirth. 

The  horrible  sense  of  human  suffering  that  had 
beaten  in  upon  him  at  the  hospital,  pressed  again 
upon  his  heart.  He  saw  himself  departing  next  day 
to  find  the  abandoned  grave  and  he  saw  himself 
standing  beside  her  train  and  measuring  along  the 
shining  rails  the  vast  distances  that  were  to  bear  her 
away  for  ever. 

"That's  the  worst,"  he  said.  "You're  suffering 
too.  I  must  see  you  go  away  and  know  that  you  are 
unhappy.  I  must  think  of  you  as  unhappy.  With 
a  broken  heart." 


372  ADRIENNE  TONER 

Her  eyes,  after  she  had  thanked  him,  had  been 
fixed  in  the  intent  reverie.  She,  too,  perhaps,  had 
been  seeing  those  tides  of  misery,  the  sea  of  which 
she  had  spoken,  breaking  in  tragic  waves  for  ever; 
so  unchanged  by  all  the  alleviations  that  love  or 
mercy  could  bring ;  and  it  was  perhaps  with  despair 
that  she  saw  herself  as  one  with  it.  Her  eyes  as  she 
turned  them  on  him  were  full  of  distance  and  of 
depth  and,  with  sickening  grief,  he  felt  that  a  woman 
with  a  broken  heart  could  do  nothing  more  for  her 
self  or  for  him. 

But  her  thought,  whatever  the  voids  of  darkness 
it  had  visited,  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  his  need  as 
she  looked  at  him.  Something  of  her  own  strong  vig 
ilance  was  in  the  look,  bringing  the  seagull  to  his  mind. 
The  seagull  caught  and  battered  by  the  waves,  with 
sodden  wings,  half  dragged  down,  yet  summoning 
its  strength  to  rise  from  the  submerging  sea. 

"But  you  can  be  happy  with  a  broken  heart," 
she  said.  Their  hands  had  fallen  apart  long  since. 
She  stretched  out  hers  now  and  took  his  in  her  small, 
firm  grasp. 

"Can  you?"  he  asked. 

"You  mustn't  think  of  me  like  this,"  she  said, 
and  it  was  as  if  she  read  his  thoughts  and  their 
imagery.  "I  went  down,  I  know;  like  drowning. 
Sometimes  the  waves  break  over  you  and  pull  you 
down,  and  there  seems  nothing  else  in  all  the  world 
but'  yourself  and  what  you've  suffered.  But  it 
doesn't  last.  Something  brings  you  up  again." 

Something  had  brought  her  up  again  now.  His 
darkness.  His  misery.  It  was  as  if  he  saw  her  spread 
her  wings  and  saw  her  eyes  measuring,  for  them 
both,  the  spaces  of  sea  and  sky. 


ADRIENNE  TONER  373 

He  remembered  a  picture  in  a  book  he  had  loved 
as  a  little  boy:  little  Diamond  held  to  the  breast  of 
the  North  Wind  as  she  flies  forth  in  her  streaming 
hair  against  a  sky  of  stars.  So  he  felt  himself  lying 
on  her  breast  and  lifted  with  her. 

"  I've  told  you  how  happy  I  can  be.  It's  all  true," 
she  said.  "It's  all  there.  The  light,  the  peace,  the 
strength.  I  shall  find  them.  And  so  will  you." 

"Shall  I?"  he  questioned  gently.  "Without 
you?" 

"Yes.  Without  me.  You  will  find  them.  But  you 
won't  be  without  me,"  said  Adrienne. 

Already  she  was  finding  them.  He  knew  that,  for, 
as  she  looked  at  him,  he  felt  an  influence  passing 
from  her  to  him  like  the  laying  of  her  hand  upon  his 
brow.  But  it  was  closer  than  that.  It  was  to  her 
breast  that  her  eyes  held  him  while,  in  a  long  silence, 
the  compulsion  of  her  faith  flowed  into  him.  First 
quietness ;  then  peace ;  then  a  lifting  radiance. 

"Promise  me,"  he  heard  her  say. 

He  did  not  know  what  it  was  he  must  promise, 
but  he  seemed  to  feel  it  all  without  knowing  and 
he  said:  "I  promise." 

She  rose  and  stood  above  him.  "You  mustn't 
regret.  You  mustn't  want." 

She  laid  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders  as  she 
spoke  and  looked  down  at  him,  so  austere,  so  radi 
ant.  "Anything  else  would  have  spoiled  it.  We 
were  only  meant  to  find  each  other  like  this  and 
then  to  part." 

"I'll  be  good,"  said  Oldmeadow.  It  was  like 
saying  one's  prayers  at  one's  mother's  knees  and 
his  lips  found  the  child-like  formula. 

"We  must  part,"  said  Adrienne.    "I  have  my 


374  ADRIENNE  TONER 

life  and  you  have  yours  and  they  take  different 
ways.  But  you  won't  be  without  me,  I  won't  be 
without  you.  How  can  we  be,  when  we  will  never, 
never  forget  each  other  and  our  love?" 

He  looked  up  at  her.  He  had  put  out  his  hands 
and  they  grasped  her  dress  as  a  donor  in  a  votive 
altarpiece  grasps  the  Madonna's  healing  garment. 
It  was  not,  he  knew,  to  keep  her.  It  was  rather  in 
an  accepting  relinquishment  that  he  held  her  thus 
for  their  last  communion,  receiving  through  touch 
and  sight  and  hearing  her  final  benison. 

"I  will  think  of  you  every  day,  until  I  die,"  she 
said.  "I  will  pray  for  you  every  day.  Dear  friend 
—  dearest  friend  —  God  bless  and  keep  you." 

She  had  stooped  to  him  and  for  a  transcending 
moment  he  was  taken  into  her  strong,  life-giving 
embrace.  The  climax  of  his  life  was  come  as  he  felt 
her  arms  close  round  him  and  her  kiss  upon  his  fore 
head.  And  as  she  held  him  thus  he  believed  all  that 
she  had  said  and  all  for  which  she  could  have  found 
no  words.  That  he  should  find  the  light  and  more 
and  more  feel  their  unity  in  it:  that  the  thought  of 
her  would  be  strength  to  him  always;  as  the  thought 
of  him  and  of  his  love  would  be  strength  to  her. 

After  she  had  gone,  he  sat  for  a  long  time  bathed 
in  the  sense  of  her  life,  and  tasting,  for  that  span  of 
time,  her  own  security  of  eternal  goodness. 


THE  END 


DATE  DUE 


